


Start Believing

by orphan_account



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, F/F, F/M, M/M, Polyamory, energy vampires, no actual blood
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-31
Updated: 2014-11-18
Packaged: 2017-11-23 03:48:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 30,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/617747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Frank is an energy vampire! And occasionally his own worst enemy.</p><p>(abandoned WIP)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It had been easy, at first. There'd been a lot of bars and a lot of afterparties, and everyone had been drunk or high enough that it wasn't any big thing if a couple of people passed out a little sooner than they otherwise might've. Frank had been careful – he has fucking ethics, okay? – and anyway it wasn't like there was any shortage of people willing to let him blow them, if push came to shove.

Push had come to shove quite a lot, back then.

These days, though. These days, it's harder, and Frank's aware that it's mostly his own stupid hangups, thank you, but he doesn't feel right throwing himself into the Warped party lifestyle while Gerard's hermiting it up on the bus. It's been barely a fucking year, and Frank's so fucking proud of the dude, but he's not over the fear yet; there's a part of him that still worries that if he goes out to down a few, Gee's gonna have no reason not to follow his example.

Plus, it's fucking Warped, one big incestuous traveling circus of the same people night after night, bands and techs and roadies. Three fourths of everyone with a pass knows him by sight at this point; forget trying to find a convenient hookup, he has enough trouble just trying to find people he can draw from without tiring them enough to notice. _Just a little_ is quickly turning into not nearly enough, a constant pinching drag in his chest, so when Frank sees his chance he fucking seizes it.

Of course, because his luck is just that shitty, Gerard comes looking for him at the worst possible time, while Frank is on his knees in the alley behind the stupid club Wentz had dragged everyone out to. Frank doesn't even feel him coming, which is ridiculous, but he's got about ninety percent of his attention focused on the energy he's draining from the bartender who'd been eyeing him. The rest of him's just enjoying having a cock stretching his mouth open, really, so he's kind of taken by surprise when there's a sudden scuff of feet behind him and Gerard's voice blurts, "Frankie? Uh, oh, fuck, sorry..."

Frank doesn't actually bite the dude's dick off, which he'd probably consider a win if he wasn't frozen in place as the footsteps retreat around the corner. Fucking _fuck_ , he thinks, but the guy is whining above him and hitching his hips, and after a couple of seconds of freaking out the temptation wins out and Frank gets back to work.

After, when he's tucked the bartender back together and poured him into a cab so he can go home and pass out, secure in the misapprehension that Frank's _only_ a fucking awesome cocksucker, Frank hesitates at the front of the club for a second. The sated afterglow pooling in his stomach is whispering that he should be sleeping too, letting his body do its job and all that good shit, but... Gerard. Fuck.

"Iero?" Worm's big hand clamps down on his shoulder, and he just about jumps out of his skin.

"Fuck!" Frank whirls, heart racing, slamming the side of his fist against Worm's chest in protest. It's been so fucking long he's forgotten how his senses dull afterward, his body so full of human energy that it no longer whispers along his nerves even in close proximity.

Worm, the asshole, doesn't even have the decency to pretend to flinch. He just stares down at Frank, arms folded, expression accusing. "The fuck have you been, asshole? Bus call."

"Huh?" Frank blinks at him, then drags his cellphone out of his pocket to check the time and boggles at what it tells him. "Shit. Fuck, dude." He's so fucking late, and now he knows why Gerard had come looking. "Uh, sorry?" He tries for a hangdog look, but can't really bring himself to regret it.

"Just get a fucking move on," Worm grumbles, jerking his head in the direction of the lot where they'd parked Fall Out Boy's roadie's van. "Gerard's having some kinda spaz attack, and I think Bob's gonna kill Wentz."

Fucking fuck. Frank doesn't want to think about Gerard, isn't looking forward to having to face him. "He hasn't killed me yet," he argues as Worm herds him down the street – dude used to threaten to put them all on leashes, back when at least forty percent of the band had been guaranteed to be high or wasted at any given time. Frank isn't even embarrassed by the mother-henning any more, how pathetic is that?

"He's used to you," is all Worm says as they turn into the lot. Frank's breathing hard and craving a smoke; he has to fucking trot just to keep up. Goddamn giant motherfuckers.

"There you fucking are." Bob's leaning against the driver-side door, smoking ferociously. Gerard's standing beside him, eyes on his shoes and jittering like he's had a half-dozen espressos; he jerks his head up at Bob's words, wide eyes fixing on Frank.

The bottom drops out of Frank's stomach, and he almost faceplants into the gravel as the toe of his sneaker catches against the ground. "Uh." He has to fucking clear his throat, he sounds so fucking shot all of a sudden, has to resist the urge to check his face for come like he hadn't swallowed down every drop. "Hey."

"Asshole," is all Bob says, smacking Frank in the ear, not even hard at all. Frank does a sort of one-shouldered shrug and sidles over to steal Gerard's cigarette, all without actually looking him in the eye once. There's only a couple drags left, and enough ash scattered across Gee's jeans that Frank knows he's been too on edge to actually smoke. He's starting to feel it now, just a little, the familiar soft hum along his nerves. And...

"Is that Wentz all over Mikey again?" Frank can't actually see through the tinted windows into the backseat, but Trohman and Stump are hunkered down in the front with matching long-suffering expressions, and the beat of whatever they have on the radio is thudding out into the quiet of the parking lot.

"There's some things you just don't need to see," is Bob's answer; Gerard makes a hilarious scrunched-up face of _ew_ , but his eyes are on Frank.

"Right." Frank drops his eyes, suddenly too aware of the stretched soreness of his lips, the taste still in his mouth. He shoulders Gee aside, banging on the window in warning before he yanks the door open. "Let's get this show on the fucking road then, asswipes."

 

* * *

 

They're late enough back that their buses are the only ones left in the venue lot, and Ray looks ridiculously relieved when they pile up the steps, Worm dragging a petulant-looking Mikey who'd had to be forcibly separated from Wentz. Gerard has his head down and shoulders up, refusing to look at his brother or Frank, and he shuffles into the bunks without a word to anyone. Ray stares after him all perplexed, brows drawn worriedly together until Bob knocks into his shoulder on his beeline for the remote. Frank spares a glance for Mikey, who's already got his phone out, texting both-handed, and doesn't actually kick anything. He really fucking wants to, though.

Instead, he grabs a soda from the fridge, swaying a little as the bus rumbles to life under his feet, and cracks the top, swallowing down big gulps of froth to wash the taste of dick out of his mouth. He doesn't even realize he's staring at the door to the bunks until Mikey waves a limp hand in front of his face, startling him.

"Dude," Mikey starts as Frank jumps, then doesn't go on, just fixing Frank with a curious look. Frank rolls his shoulders, swallows back a fizzy belch, and shakes his head a little, dumping the empty can into the trash.

"'M gonna go," he jerks his head in the direction of the door to the bunks, and Mikey shrugs back at him all _whatever, dude_ , which makes Frank feel a little better just from the sheer usualness of it. He still stops in the middle of the corridor, though, staring at the closed curtain of Gerard's bunk, the faint lines of light that filter around the edges. He can _feel_ Gee there, warm and solid and so fucking _alive_ , so fucking different from the weak and faltering energy Frank remembers from last year. From before.

There's no tinny ipod sounds coming from Gerard's bunk, no papery book noises or scratchy drawing noises. Frank stands there gnawing on his already-sore lip, listening to Cortez snoring in the back top bunk and half wondering if Gerard was in the middle of jerking off or something. His gut gives a hungry twist at the thought, echoed by a twitch in his dick, and he folds his fingers into fists, squeezing so tight his bones ache. He wants to call J, wants to spill his guts to her and let her put him back together, but it's well past midnight which means even fucking later back home. He still stands there opening and closing his phone, watching the minutes tick over three times, before he finally folds himself down into his bunk still in his jeans, pressing his hot face into the cool pillow. He doesn't expect to fall asleep, his head's too jumbled, but his body has other ideas.

 

* * *

 

The next thing Frank knows is the sudden judder of silence as the engine cuts out, and the shrill protest of Ray's voice as he's caught off guard for the five hundredth fucking time. Frank shifts a bit, yawning, stretching his legs out and letting himself settle into the idea of waking up. He can feel the hum of the others moving around, the diffuse background swell of frantic humanity that's the rest of the tour, but for once there's no hunger, no craving. It's nice, like waking up back home; Frank yawns again, wriggling and making a face as the seam of his jeans digs in. Fuck, he's slept in his clothes again; he cracks his eyes open, blinking against the grittiness, and startles the rest of the way awake when he sees Gerard curled up in his own bunk, across the way, watching him.

"Shit!" It's only the fucking blanket tangled around his arm that stops him cracking his head on the top of his bunk. "Motherfucking –" he finally gets untrapped enough to shove himself halfway to upright. "Jesus Christ, Gee, what the fuck?" Frank demands. He thinks he's justified in being at least a little bit weirded out here. Had Gerard actually been _watching him sleep_?

"Hey," Gerard says – mumbles, really, around the thumbnail he's chewing on. He stays where he is, huddled in his bunk, as Frank struggles upright, only his eyes moving to follow him. He looks even more fucking squirrelly than he had last night, and Frank stands in the aisle looking down at him for a second before he shrugs and goes to piss and brush his teeth and wash as best he can in the tiny gross bus bathroom. When he looks up from rinsing his toothbrush, his own reflection startles him; there's new color in his skin, barely a hint of bruises beneath his eyes. He looks _alive_ , he thinks, in a way that he hasn't in weeks.

He's not the only one who notices, either. When he heads into the front lounge (after swapping out yesterday's shirt and underwear for marginally cleaner versions, back resolutely turned to Gerard's now-empty bunk) in search of coffee, Ray looks up from his bowl, eyes sweeping over Frank, and says "Hey, Frankie, you feeling better?" He looks ridiculously perked up for whatever fucking hour of the morning it is, which might be explained by the fact that he's eating Bob's cereal again, or by the general scent of coffee in the air that suggests the half-pot on the machine isn't the day's first.

"'M fine." Frank shuffles over, kicking someone's discarded sneaker out of the way, and pours himself a mug. "Where the fuck are we, man? And what do you mean, better?"

"Bugfuck, Oklahoma." Ray pushes the Count Chocula box absently in Frank's direction. "Dude, we've all been, like, waiting for you to get sick again for the last week. You were looking, you know," he gestures vaguely with his spoon like it's one of Gerard's brushes. "Peaked."

"Fuck you, man, I'm totally healthy," Frank says on total autopilot, one wary eye on the cartoon vampire on the box as he sneaks a handful of dry cereal to crunch. Ray's snort says what he thinks about that.

"Dude, Brian was on the phone to Worm about contingency plans yesterday," he points out almost gleefully. "You should get Bob to text him that you're better," Ray adds, hair bouncing limply as he shoves himself up from the table to dump his bowl in the heap of dishes by the sink. "He'll never believe it from you."

"Fuck you," Frank shoots back, but inwardly he's wincing; the constant pinching hunger had become so much a part of him that he hadn't considered what it'd look like from the outside. At least having a reputation for being sickly is good for some things. "Hey," he asks before he can let himself think about it further, "did Gee come through this way?"

"Huh?" Ray turns to blink at him. "Haven't seen him. Bob went to get our stage time, though."

"Cool." Frank eyes the cereal box again, poking at it with a fingertip until the little vampire is facing the other way, then drains his coffee, shoving himself to his feet. "I'm gonna go check on him," he decides, because if there's music to be faced, fucked up trains of thought to be untangled, better to get it over with now rather than let it fester any further. Fucking Gerard, God.

Gerard's bunk, when Frank slides through the door from the lounge, is still empty and accusing. He stares at it for a moment – that's his fucking Chainsaw Massacre mug tucked between the pillow and the corner of the wall – before shaking his head clear and heading on back.

He finds Gerard in the back lounge-turned-studio, and it only occurs to Frank as Gerard blinks up at him, all wide startled eyes in the dim light, that he could have interrupted anything from phone calls to jerking off. "Uh." The realization knocks him off his groove, and suddenly he feels nervous. "Hi."

"Hey." Gerard's eyes drop to the sketchpad balanced on his knees. Frank can see a collection of marker doodles slowly encroaching from the edges into the blank space in the middle of the page. Fuck.

"Okay." Frank rubs his palms against his jeans, then gets a grip on himself, marching over to shove Gerard's legs off the couch and sit down. Gerard doesn't even complain, just tucking his knees up closer to himself, chewing on the lid of his marker. He's watching Frank out of the corner of his eye, like he wants to say something but hasn't quite pulled it together, or maybe like he wants to see what Frank's going to do.

"Okay," Frank says again, tugging at a loose thread in the knee of his jeans where a hole's coming. "Dude, you're gonna have to let me know what's got you so fuckin' twitchy, okay? I get that it's about me, and – last night, but..."

"It's not –" Gerard blurts, then kind of sighs at himself, rolling his eyes. "Fuck, Frank, it's none of my business."

"Fuck you," Frank shoots back instantly. "You're – man, maybe it actually isn't any of your business, but if you really thought that you wouldn't be all," he waves his hand illustratively at the way Gerard's hunched over himself, gnawing on the marker. "So fucking well spit it out, dude."

"I..." Gerard rolls his eyes a little more, but in the way that means he's trying to put words together, not the irritated way. "Ugh, shit. I guess I just – I didn't really know you did... that." A flappy hand-wave illustrates exactly nothing, but Frank gets the point, remembers the feel of dirt grinding into his knees, the stretch of his jaw. Of course, being Gerard, he can't seem to stop now that he's started. "Like, I kind of thought that you and Jamia were, you know, committed and shit, and I guess that's none of my business either, like, I know that commitment doesn't have to be synonymous with monogamy and shit, but I just didn't know, you know? And I guess it's just kind of a weird feeling, to have to re-evaluate what I thought I knew about one of my best friends. You know?" He's progressed from chewing on the end the marker to turning it in his hands, and Frank can't quite look at the fresh ink streaks spreading over the faded ones on his fingers. Can't quite meet his eyes.

"I guess, yeah." He picks at the hole in his jeans a little more, tugging the thread loose. "I – fuck, Gee, don't take this badly, okay, but there was a while there I could have run a fucking, I don't know, a brothel or some shit out the back of the bus without you noticing. Not that I would have," Frank adds hastily before Gee can take him seriously, "but, you know."

"...Oh." Gerard shifts a little, his socked feet twitching on the couch. There's a hole in one heel, but he doesn't really smell any more rank than any of the rest of them, four days out from the last decent shower. Not this time. "I guess that's fair."

"Right." Frank shrugs irritably; the collar of his shirt feels too tight, itchy from shitty laundromat detergent. "And, I mean, we've all been hanging out on the bus more this year anyway – with the studio and all," he adds desperately as Gerard opens his mouth. "So, like, it's not as if I've been putting myself out there for you to fucking notice it, you know? But, yeah, in the interests of full fucking disclosure or whatever, I do sometimes hook up, Gee, okay?" He can't quite stop his voice from coming out defensive, and he sees Gerard flinch from the corner of his eye, thinks _fuck_.

"And – Jamia?" Gerard asks in a weird, quiet voice. Frank squeezes his eyes shut for a second before turning to face him, breathing out slow through his nose.

"Knows." Hell, she's been getting on his case about it for weeks now, but he's not going to tell Gerard that. He feels vulnerable enough already, half-truths coming too close to the bone. "Look, you don't need to worry about us, man, we're solid," he says in the most reassuring voice he can manage. Gerard kind of peers at him from under the fall of his hair for a second, then ducks his head, staring down at his marker-stained fingertips.

"Okay, Frankie. Just – give me a while, okay? I gotta work out how to fuckin' unsee that shit now."

"Dude." Frank stares at him – it's kind of dim in here with only the light from the high windows, fuck knows how he sees to draw, but he thinks Gee's actually blushing. "What the fuck, dude, you totally stuck your hand down my pants at that show last week." He'd come within fractions of an inch of getting an actual handful, too.

"That's different," Gerard argues, looking kind of shifty, but he doesn't get a chance to explain because right then Worm's banging on the door and yelling for them to get their asses out to sound check.

 

* * *

 

The most awesome thing about Warped is also the most annoying. Never knowing their schedule from day to day makes it fucking impossible to co-ordinate phone calls; Frank checks the time on his phone after the techs setting up the stage move on to the next band in the draw, calculates the time difference as lunchtime, more or less, and hits dial, wandering off in the vague direction of catering.

Jamia picks up on the third ring. "Hey." Frank squeezes his eyes shut for a second, leaning up against an abandoned flight case.

"Hey. Can you talk, or...?" he asks, with the vague memory that she'd said something last time about doing some shit for Eyeball this week. 

"Oh, thank Christ." Jamia doesn't beat about the fucking bush; the exasperated relief in her voice makes Frank wince. Hard to believe she can hear it in his voice, even over however many thousand miles this is, but she's always been sensitive that way.

"Yeah, some of the guys went out last night," he says, one eye on the cluster of roadies smoking out back of the craft services tent a few yards away. There's no one within earshot, he's sure, but... "There was this guy, bartender – fuck, you know the score, J."

"Mm-hm." There's an excited yip in the background, and Frank can picture Jamia nudging Mama aside with one foot, pacing the way she always does on the phone. It occurs to him that he has no fucking clue what day of the week it even is; Warped is a totally different planet that way. "He taste good?" There's a hint of hunger in her voice, and Frank wonders when she last fed.

"Fucking amazing." Movement in the corner of his vision attracts his attention, but it's only a couple of the guys from Avenged tossing an incongruously bright pink frisbee back and forth in front of the buses. The fucking sun is starting to make him itch with sweat; Frank tries his best to shuffle into the narrow strip of shadow behind a tent. "Just my fucking luck, though, Gerard came looking for me."

"Shit. He catch you?" Jamia asks, and Frank can picture her face perfectly, caught between a smirk and a worried wince.

"With my fucking mouth full," he says flatly, and of course she cracks the fuck up, giggling wickedly in his ear. "Shut the hell up," he complains, "you don't even _know_. I just had to have the fucking talk with him and everything."

That shuts her up. " _The_ talk...?" 

"Fuck, no, are you crazy?" Frank winces, glancing around like someone might actually have snuck up to listen even though he can feel he's alone. "The 'I realize you were kind of drunk for a few years there but sometimes I do in fact get laid' talk."

"Okay." She sounds so fucking neutral that Frank feels compelled to keep talking.

"Yeah, so, I think he thinks we're doing the fucking, what do you call it, open relationship thing or something. I... shit." There's a tingle along the edge of his senses, a familiar energy slipping closer, distracting him, but when he tries to concentrate on it, it dissipates.

"Frank?" Jamia asks in his ear, and he shakes his head.

"Nothing, I just thought – anyway, Gee's been fucking weird about the whole thing. Like, I _know_ he got a fucking eyeful of Mikey and Wentz last week, we all did, you know? I guess I don't get why he's twisting himself up over me blowing some random dude all of a sudden. He was going on about seeing me in a fucking new light or some shit."

"Oh, Frank," Jamia sighs – fucking sighs! – like he's the idiot here. Like he's being a total, oblivious, visible-from-Jersey moron. Frank bristles, kicking at the gritty dirt underfoot.

"What?"

"Never mind. You know," she says gently, and Frank can hear faint, distant shouting in the background, wonders if she's out walking the dogs or something. "If you wanted to tell him, you could. You guys have come through a lot together – all of you. They'd understand."

"J..." Frank swallows; this isn't the first time they've had this conversation, but it's never been something he's wanted to think about. He squeezes his eyes shut."You do remember Gerard's vampires period, right?" Hell, he'd been fucking drawing some last week.

"You and I both know what that was about," Jamia says, and Frank hears her curse under her breath as Mama starts barking. "I have to go, okay, but you should call me again tonight. After you play, deal?"

"Okay." They're on third from last today; time to get lunch and maybe bug Bob for a while. "I love you," Frank says, because it's fucking true; he frequently has no idea how he got so fucking lucky.

"Love you too," Jamia says fondly in his ear. "And don't fucking leave it so long again, okay?" She's gone before he can protest that, her voice replaced by the dull burr of the dead line. Frank sighs, flipping his phone open and shut a couple times before stuffing it into his pocket despite the blinking, insistent message icon.

 

* * *

 

Stage call somehow sneaks up on Frank; one minute he's kicking Bob's ass at Mario Kart (no matter what Bob says. Frank is so totally winning, okay), the next he's backstage with his shirt off and arms out while the tech crew wire him up and threaten him with mutilation if he destroys another pack. Toro bounds over like an excitable puppy while Frank's still struggling with his shirt, clapping him on the shoulder and shouting something that gets mostly lost in the spike of crowd noise as Bob heads out onto the stage. All Frank can make out is something about the set list, and by the time he's got his own guitar settled and plugged in and checked, shooting a thumbs up to the techs, Ray's fucked off again and is over by the sound booth, shouting something in Gerard's ear.

"What about the set list?" Frank demands of anyone who'll listen, bouncing up onto his toes as the crowd noise ramps up again. It feels like his bones are thrumming with it, overwhelming the last clench of nerves in his stomach; he almost overbalances as Mikey's bony elbow knocks into his shoulder (fucking beanpole motherfucker).

"Switched it up some," is all Mikey says, laconic despite the tight lines of his body. It's even odds, really, as to whether not getting completely trashed before shows has helped or hindered the stage fright. Frank grabs a handful of his shirt for balance, clinging until Mikey shakes him limply aside, bass swaying.

"What the fuck, switched it up?" Frank blinks as a hand thrusts a piece of paper into his face, and wrestles it back enough to scan it over – the new set list, apparently, in Gerard's barely decipherable sharpie scrawl.

"Gee got a bug up his ass or some shit." Mikey shrugs one-shouldered at Frank and shuffles over to the edge of the stage, glancing at the techs for the cue. Frank bites off a curse, checks the paper one more time – leading with Venom, okay, that's not a surprise – and shoves it into his back pocket as he strides out to take his own place, the sudden crescendo of screams rising up like a wave.

The crowd today are especially enthusiastic, or maybe Frank's just finally well-fed enough to cut loose and enjoy it. Either way, the kids go fucking crazy the minute Ray rips into the opening solo, the blast of ecstatic, ungrounded energy hitting Frank like a blow to the chest as he slams out the punctuating chords, and he lets it lift and carry him. The thrill is like no other, electricity arcing along his nerves, winding him up until he has to flail and spit and thrash his way across the stage, playing up to the audience and letting their screams run through him like a fizzing in his blood, taking everything they give him and throwing it right back. Playing up to his band, bouncing like a pinball between hanging out with Mikey in the middle and trying to climb Toro, dodging the water bottle Bob chucks as a warning shot when Frank gets too close to his kit. Playing up to Gerard, pressed up against his side with Gee's fingers clenched around Frank's stupid red tie, and it's only when Gerard rips away to lean over the monitors, screaming the last lines of the first closer out at the crowd, that Frank realizes they haven't played Prison.

Gerard is talking to the audience, telling them they're fucking awesome, that they have to put their hands in the air for the last song. Frank ducks his head, breathing hard, shuffling back to stage right to check the set list, like he might have somehow missed it, but nope, no Prison. That's got to mean something, but he has no fucking clue what, and no time to wonder because Bob's already tapping out the intro to Vampires. Fucking Gerard, Frank thinks, dropping to his knees as the energy of the crowd surges over him, so strong he can almost taste it, so diffuse he can't hope to grasp it, let alone feed. It rockets along every nerve, snaps and tingles in his bones; he arches back as his fingers strike the strings, coming in along with Gerard's vocals, barely feeling the dull throb as the back of his head smacks into the stage.

After, when they've all trooped off stage and Frank's been freed from guitar and earpiece and the goddamned pinching harness, it's like coming down from a high, like he's settling back into his own skin. Frank closes his eyes for just a second, breathing, letting himself feel the urge to chase that tingle of crowd energy even as he knows it's useless – there's nothing to catch hold of, nothing to feed on, and he'd exhaust himself trying, but knowing that doesn't stop the ache of need. When he opens his eyes again, he's alone in the bustle of backstage as the techs prep the next band, his own guys already out of sight. Fucking figures, Frank thinks, and sets out to track down Gerard. _Something_ is going the fuck on here.

 

* * *

 

Gerard is not in the front lounge, the back lounge, the bunks, or talking to the driver. Frank has to conclude, shortly after escaping from an irate Bob (who'd objected to having his bunk inspected for wayward frontmen, even though all he'd been doing was reading a drum magazine, not even jerking off or anything), that Gerard is not in fact on the bus. This is a concern.

Of course, Mikey isn't on the bus either, but that's not news: Fall Out Boy had been on a couple of sets before them. Frank stands in the kitchenette, staring aimlessly around like Gerard might appear from under the couch or inside the refrigerator.

"Dude." Ray shoulders him damply aside, dark sweat patches already growing on the fresh (well, tour-equivalent fresh, so at least not actually greasy) shirt he's put on. His hair is drooping limply down his neck, and he makes a happy noise as he yanks open the refrigerator, shoving his whole damn head inside. "Fuck yeah that's better. I want a fucking soda. Frankie, you want a soda?"

Frank wants a fucking beer, or maybe a lobotomy, but this year the bus is a no-beer zone. They'd decided, setting out; no beer, no liquor, no weed, no pills. Not that they don't trust Gerard, but... it's too soon. And, hell, it's fucking Warped; not like it's hard to find something to get you off your face, if that's what you're after.

"Where's Gee?" Frank's mouth says without his input. Ray straightens up, squinting at him with two Cokes clutched in his hands. The cold air from the fridge has condensed droplets in his hair.

"Isn't he here?" Ray holds out one of the cans until Frank takes it from him, fingers slipping over the sweaty metal. "Maybe he went to shower? There's, like, some kinda truck stop or something on the other side of the highway, the Midtown guys took a van over."

Frank can't hold back a snort at the idea, and Ray shrugs sort of jerkily, shoving past to collapse on the couch and poke at the remote. "Whatever, he'll be back pretty quick, I guess. It's hot as balls out there."

"I fucking know." Frank stares down at himself, belatedly realizing he's still in his totally disgusting, sweat-drenched stage clothes that are rapidly cooling against his skin. "Fuck, I'm gross," he mumbles, dumping the soda back onto the counter so he can go find something vaguely clean to change into. Where usually he's wired after a show, still sparking with the remnants of the crowd's energy, he feels weirdly off balance today, the change in routine throwing him off his comfortable groove.

Frank shucks out of his disgusting shirt and jeans in the tiny bus bathroom, knees and elbows thumping painfully into the walls, and soaps up a washcloth to rub himself down because even a whore's bath is better than nothing. Fuck, he wants a real shower, with lots of hot water and steam and that fancy soap Jamia buys that smells nothing like Irish Spring. When he looks up from rinsing out the cloth, there's a film of steam forming across the mirror, softening his reflection into a pale blur punctuated by the glitter of his eyes and the sharp flash of his lip ring against his red mouth. Frank flinches full-bodied, slamming his shoulder into the door so hard it rattles. Then it rattles again as Bob pounds on it.

"The fuck are you doing in there, having a fucking seizure?" his muffled voice demands. Frank scowls, smearing off the mist with a rough hand over the mirror, and grabs his towel, purposefully rattling the door as he swipes off most of the water.

"Blowing your mom," he shouts through the door, and it's like he can _hear_ Bob rolling his eyes and shuffling away.

"Fuck you."

"Fuck _you_." Frank tucks the towel around his waist and shoulders the door open, going to dig some moderately clean (well. Clean _er_ ) clothes out of his bag. When he stumbles back out into the front lounge, Bob's ensconced on the couch with Ray, the pair of them managing to take up the whole thing despite sitting at opposite ends because they're fucking giants. They're also eating pizza, which, what the fuck?

"What the fuck?" Frank scrambles around the couch to poke at the boxes. Shit, there's even one with NO CHEESE scrawled on the lid, along with a lopsided smiley face and a zombie cow. "Gerard?" Has the asshole actually figured out how to turn invisible now?

"Back lounge," Bob volunteers through a mouthful of pepperoni. "Phone call or some shit," he mumbles as Frank clutches the pizza box, staring at him. Ray makes a stupid shushing noise without looking away from the TV, where he's watching something ridiculously 80s.

"What the fuck," Frank says again, turning on his heel to march back through the bunks. Heat seeps through the cardboard in his hands, the smell wafting up almost strong enough to mask the rankness of a bus full of sweaty unwashed dudes.

Gerard is in fact in the back lounge, wedged into the corner of the little booth seat with his phone abandoned on top of Ray's laptop. He's drawing something on the back of his hand with a Sharpie, bottom lip caught between his stupid little teeth, and he jumps a fucking mile, streaking black all down his wrist, as Frank stomps in.

"Wha – aw, shit. Frankie," he complains, and Frank rolls his eyes, shoving Gerard's legs out of the way so he can sit down.

"What the hell, dude, you brought pizza and you aren't gonna eat it?" He prods Gee's arm with the corner of the pizza box, unaccountably irritated by the way he's staring sadly down at the mess of marker on his hand. "Hey, pay attention to me, fucker."

"I ate some," Gerard protests, squirming away from Frank's poking. He's kind of eyeing Frank's box, though, so Frank makes a show out of opening it and chomping down on a slice, grinning to himself when Gerard's fingers inch over to sneak a piece.

"It doesn't taste right without cheese," is Gerard's complaint a couple minutes later, licking sauce off his fingers with long swipes of his tongue like he doesn't even notice how fucking obscene he is.

"Pretend it's fucking Chicago style," Frank says, because it's that or beg Gerard to suck on _his_ fingers that way, and that's just – no. He has _rules_. It does remind him, though, that he's kind of pissed with the dude, so he shrugs off the inevitable complaints about Chicago pizza being a travesty and shifts his leg, prodding Gerard in the knee with his bare toes. "Hey. Hey, shut up and tell me what fuck is up with you, okay."

Gerard kind of rolls his eyes around, slumping down into the couch like he's trying to sink into it. "I can't shut up and talk at the same time," he points out, but Frank can tell it's stalling by the way he's twisting the marker in his hands. Frank dumps the pizza box onto the closed lid of Ray's laptop so he can take the Sharpie away, snapping the cap onto it before handing it back. Gerard blinks down at the streaks of ink smudging his fingers like he hadn't even realized he was making them.

"Cutting Prison," Frank prompts, and he can feel Gerard's flinch tickle along his nerves, the way his familiar energy hitches uncertainly. "Seriously, Gee, what the fuck?"

"I just wanted to sing Vampires," Gerard mumbles to his knees, and Frank can feel the lie even as he winces automatically at the word.

"Bullshit, man. Is it me?" he demands, and fuck, he hadn't quite realized how much the answer apparently matters to him until he hears the harshness of his own voice. Gerard clearly hears it too; his head jerks up and he stares at Frank wide-eyed.

"No! ...Uh. Fuck, Frankie..."

Shit. Frank's stomach turns over, and he feels abruptly as though he might puke. "If you think I'm gonna..." he manages before Gerard flails a hand out to grab at his arm, shaking his head spastically.

"No, Frankie, no, it's just – it's me, okay? I'm just fucked up." He stares at Frank like he can see into his fucking soul, and Frank can't help it, he shies away, ducking his head and pulling his own energy in tight as though Gerard really could read him. "I know you're not – I mean, I just need to get over myself and fucking, I don't even know." Gerard takes his hand back, slumping back and letting out an explosive breath.

"Right." Frank chews on his lip ring, staring down at his hands. "Uh, we're okay though, right?" he can't help but ask. He's locked down so tight against the pull of Gerard's fucking life force that he starts when Gee's knee bumps his.

"Sure we are," he says, and if it's a lie Frank can't hear it.

 

* * *

 

"I just..." Frank pauses mid-pace, scrubbing a hand through his hair and staring out at the distant city lights. "I don't know what the fuck is up, J. Every time I try to talk to him about it I end up feeling like I ate his fucking puppy or something, and he says it's all fine but we haven't played Prison _or_ Sorrows in five fucking shows. I'm going fucking crazy here." He wipes his greasy hand off on his jeans, turning to survey the parking lot and the haphazard ranks of buses and trucks, the lights of stalls and stages and fires beyond. The cacophony of shouts and laughter and music drowns all the night sounds; Frank can't even remember where they are tonight.

"Oh, Frankie." Jamia's tinny voice in his ear sounds fond, if exasperated. Frank bridles.

"What?"

"Baby, you're not being fair to him. No, listen," she interrupts firmly when he makes a frustrated noise. "You said yourself, he was so fucked up for so long, he didn't see a lot of things."

"So the fuck what?" Frank kicks at the ground, sending gravel scattering, then at the chain-link fence. It creaks rustily under the onslaught. "He has no fucking right to get all holier-than-thou about me sucking dick after all the fucking times I caught him with his motherfucking pants down when he was wasted." So it maybe comes out kind of petulant; so what. Frank scowls, kicking the fence again.

"Frankie," Jamia says again, and Frank hates that tone, the one that says he's being a goddamn asshole.

"Fucking what?" he snarls, grabbing hold of the fence so that the rough wire links jab painfully at the soft parts between his fingers. "...Sorry. I'm just... I don't even fucking know. I wish you were here." He really fucking does, like an ache in his chest, like all his edges are twisted up and jagged where they should align with her, their energies meshing without a thought.

"I miss you too," she says, then, "You really don't see it, do you?"

"Huh?" Frank turns, hand still tangled in the fence, but he's still alone at this dark end of the parking lot. He doesn't know what she means. "I don't get what you—"

"He's not being a hypocrite or a prude," Jamia says like Frank hadn't even been talking. He guesses they're back to Gerard, then. "He's just... being Gerard, I guess. You should tell him – I mean, for real, not some bullshit open relationship line. He'd understand."

"Fuck, J, not this again." Frank kicks another spray of gravel onto the verge. "He so fucking wouldn't. And he can't keep his fucking mouth shut, anyway, you _know_ that."

"Frank." Jamia kind of sighs again, a rush of breathy static, but Frank can tell it's mostly frustration now. "Wouldn't it be better than things being awkward?"

"No." Frank closes his eyes, breathes. "You know what happened with Mom and..."

"I know." How the hell can she sound so gentle and so frustrated in the same couple of words. "At least think about it, though, okay? It's not fair to let him think you're just fucking around with whoever catches your eye, when he..." She blows out a breath, and Frank fidgets, waiting for the rest.

"When he what?" Fuck waiting. "J, what?"

"Never mind." He can hear the sound of fabric shifting in the background, thinks she must be in bed. It makes him think of her skin, the way he can trace the energy patterns running through her body as he runs his hands over her, and that's a train of thought he has to cut off sharply before it ends up in boner station. "Just talk to him, and don't be a fucking defensive douche about it. And for Christ's sake, find someone to feed from before I have to fly out there and smack some sense into you, it's been a couple of weeks now."

"I'm fine," Frank protests automatically, even though she's right. He can feel the mass of human energy spilling out from the other side of the parking lot like a fire, flickers of heat buzzing along his nerves. Just thinking about it, the hunger spills through him, hollow and pinching in the pit of his belly despite the burritos Mikey and Ray had brought back from town (along with a couple bagloads of clean laundry. Frank loves Mikey and Ray).

"Whatever." Jamia sighs, gusty into the phone, making Frank wince at the burst of static drilling right into his eardrum. "You're on the road tomorrow, right? Call me. And call your fucking mom, too, she's been threatening to bring a casserole round."

"Jesus, fine." Frank blows out a breath, starting back over toward the bus. Whichever fucking bus is theirs; they all look the same in the dark. "I love you." It comes out kind of grudging, maybe, but the smile in her voice as she replies softens the edges of his irritation a little.

"You too. Goodnight, get some sleep."

"Night," Frank says back, but she's already gone, the line dissolving into a dull, grating dial tone before his phone beeps at him to let him know the call has ended. "Fuck," he mumbles to himself, scuffing his way over to the row of buses. He's pretty sure theirs is the third from the end, and even though there's no one watching, he feels vindicated, like it's a victory, when the keypad accepts his code.

The good feeling dissipates immediately when Gerard looks up over the back of the couch, smiling around the pen cap caught between his teeth. His stupid lopsided ink-stained mouth stays where it is, but his eyes change when he sees Frank, brightening for just a second before his whole expression shutters. Frank can feel him shutting down, the way his aura draws in tight and fucking _sad_ , and it makes the breath catch in his throat as Jamia's words echo in his head. _It's not fair to let him think you're just fucking around with whoever catches your eye_. Oh fuck, Frank thinks dazedly. Motherfucking cocksucking _shit_.

"Hrph," Gerard says, then spits the cap out and tries again. "Hi. How's Jamia?" And, fuck, Frank can't believe how stupid he's been, how fucking _blind_ , because the guarded, careful tone of Gee's voice is just...

"Fine," he blurts, and "She says hi," and he makes a beeline for the door because he can't, he seriously just can't look at Gerard any more. Gerard who's in fucking _love_ with him, and now that Frank knows he can't unsee it, can't shut himself off from the wistful pulse of energy that reaches out to him even as he escapes through into the bunks. He can still feel Gerard's desire and unhappiness like an itch along his skin as he crawls into his bunk, yanking the curtain shut and pressing his face into his pillow. Fuck, _fuck_. What the hell is he going to do now?


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Frank is variously sick, stubborn, and stupid.

Three days ago, Frank would have said things couldn't possibly get any more awkward. He'd have been fucking wrong, of course; his luck is just running that way, this tour.

"Frank?" Ray pipes up behind him as he storms through the lounge, kicking the back of the couch on his way past. Frank ignores his worried voice, flinging himself into his bunk and burying his face in the pillow to scream silently. When he eventually has to turn his head to breathe, Mikey is sitting on the edge of Gerard's bunk opposite, playing desultorily with his phone; Frank startles violently, slamming back into the side of the bus so hard he has to curl up and clutch his elbow and just breathe for a few seconds. Mikey just watches him curiously, pointy dangling feet kicking together at the toes, so fucking self-contained that even as hungry as he is Frank can barely feel him.

"What the fuck?" Frank eventually manages to croak, shoving himself halfway upright because it feels weird to be lying down when other people aren't, more vulnerable than he likes even though it's only fucking Mikey for Christ's sake.

Mikey just gives a jerky sort of shrug, bent awkwardly forward over his own knees, and snaps his phone open and closed again, peering down at it. "You cool?" he asks quietly.

"I'm fucking peachy." Frank huffs, kicking his feet out over the aisle so he can try to toe his sneakers off. Mikey twitches an eyebrow like he hears the lie but isn't actually going to call Frank out on it, and hell if that isn't usually an expression that's pointed Gerard's way. Fucking Gerard, God.

"Mike was hitting on you," Mikey says blandly. Frank groans, flopping over to shove his face into the pillow again.

"I fucking know," he tells it. Dude hadn't exactly been subtle, Christ.

"I thought maybe you'd wanna," Mikey says, conversational like it's no big thing. "He's your type."

"Christ, Mikey." Frank squeezes his eyes shut, shoving the pillow against his face until weird colored splodges start to form in his vision. He had wanted to – wanted so fucking _hard_ , the hunger awaking in his bones as the guy had smiled at him all crooked and hot-eyed and clearly not even caring that Frank was sweaty and gross from the stage. He'd come so close, every instinct telling him that this kid was perfect, only teching for a handful of shows to fill in and so fucking _full_ of excitement and life, unlike the rest of the tour who're settled into the rut of sleep deprivation and bad food. Frank had been flirting back before he'd even caught up with himself, tipping his head back and smiling big, so ready to take this further until he'd turned his head and caught sight of Gerard watching them. Watching _him_.

He can't even fucking remember what excuse he'd given Mike, only that he'd slammed right up against the knowledge that he just... couldn't. Not with Gee right fucking there. "Think'm getting sick," he mumbles in place of the explanation that's just too ridiculous, even though Mikey has to know what Gee – how Gee – fuck, Frank can't even think it. Hell, at this rate it won't even be a lie; that fucking pinched feeling is back, twisting in his stomach, and the aches won't be far behind.

"Aw, fuck." Mikey pushes himself down to his feet, poking Frank in the ribs until he rolls over onto his side. He lays a limp hand across Frank's forehead, eyebrows pulled together in concern. "You're not hot."

"Your mom's not hot," Frank mumbles, gritting his teeth against the sudden hunger. He _won't_ draw from his bandmates – he's not stupid, and neither are they, and even beyond that, everything in him cries out against it – but friendship is hard to remember when Mikey's palm is cool against his skin, his energy _right there_. Frank just wants a little, just a fucking taste; instead, he snaps his head up, trying to bite and wincing when Mikey smacks him in the ear.

"Fuckin' asshole," Mikey mumbles, prodding at Frank's shoulder until he rolls over again, pulling his feet up. "You wanna take some medicine or a vitamin or whatever?"

"No. Fuck you," Frank mumbles back, tucking himself back against the wall. It's pleasantly cool; he can feel the dull whirr of the air conditioning running somewhere. "Gonna sleep," he lies, yawning really obviously, and he keeps his eyes firmly shut until he can feel Mikey shrugging and shuffling away.

 

* * *

 

"Frank?" Brian. Fuck. Frank pushes himself upright from where he's been kind of dozing in the corner of the couch. It takes more effort than it should; his body's been feeling heavy and slow all fucking day, even though he's been doing nothing more strenuous than sitting on his ass since it's a rare, blessed travel day. He blinks up at Brian's anxious face.

"What?" It comes out kind of croaky and Frank tries to subtly clear his throat, winces at the dry raspiness of it.

"He's getting sick," Mikey informs Brian laconically. He's sitting at the table, drinking Gerard's coffee while he's in the bathroom. Or maybe the back studio; Frank has a vague idea that Ray had been saying something about laying down tracks, and it's been kind of a while, he thinks. He's not totally sure, because he's been drifting in and out a bit and his head feels kind of slow and fuzzy.

"No I'm not," he mumbles. He so fucking is, but hell if he's going to admit to it.

"Fuck." Brian stares down at him for a couple of seconds, and Frank tries to arrange his face into a mutinous glare, with limited success. "Frank, don't fucking do this to me now. Cortez isn't gonna be back out for a couple days yet, you have the shittiest fucking timing..." His fingers are opening and closing around his Blackberry like he doesn't even know he's doing it, his expression pained and beseeching. "Don't make me scare up a replacement guitarist in the middle of fucking Colorado, Frank."

"Because there's such a fuckin' shortage of guitarists on this tour," Mikey comments into his mug before draining the last drops with a slurp and unfolding himself from the booth. Probably to find more; everyone just assumes Gerard is the worst caffeine fiend on the bus, because Mikey's sneakier about it. Frank kind of wants some coffee himself, but not enough to get up and fetch it; just the thought of hunting up a clean mug and fighting Mikey for what's left in the pot has him huddling further down into himself, fisting his hands in his hoodie sleeves.

"Motherfucker." Brian dumps his phone next to his laptop on the other end of the couch and stomps over to the kitchenette to peer into the fridge. "Mikey, make Frank some coffee and find the fucking vitamins. Frank, you have any medicine left from last time?"

"Dunno." Frank drops his head in the hope that Brian won't see him shivering; he really doesn't want to be fucking sick, but apparently he's gonna be treated like he is either way, so... "In my bag? Side pocket," he mumbles, even though he knows that all the aspirin and NyQuil in the world won't stop whatever cold or flu has latched onto him from running its course. He knows exactly what he needs – a shot of pure, undiluted human life energy to kick-start his body into remembering it has an immune system – but it's out of the question right now, and the gnaw of hunger is almost worse than the knowledge that he's going to get so much sicker before this is done with him.

"Right." Brian marches off into the bunks, and Mikey snorts at the muffled swearing that floats back through the door, along with rummaging noises. Frank doesn't even have the energy to laugh; he tucks his freezing cold feet under his freezing cold thighs – he's fucking shivering, it's ridiculous, it's got to be approaching fucking ninety outside – and leans his head against the back of the couch, wishing vaguely for a blanket.

"Here." Mikey sits down on the coffee table, holding out a mug that, when Frank takes it, smells like the dregs of the pot, overbrewed and stale. He drinks it anyway, because it's warm and it's better than the gross thick taste at the back of his mouth. Mikey's put a disgusting amount of sugar in it, and when Frank makes a face at him he just shrugs imperturbably, holding out the bottle of vitamins that Brian always stocks up on and Frank always forgets to take. "'s good for you. Here."

Frank grumbles a little, but obediently wrestles the cap off and swallows one of the stupid giant horse pills, chasing it with more gross coffee. When he looks up again, Brian's back, reading the back of a medicine bottle with a frown.

"These are expired. Frank, what the hell?"

"Shut up." Frank tucks his head into the corner of the couch, closing his eyes to rest them. "We gotta stop for gas sometime, right?" he mumbles, holding the empty mug out limply until someone takes it away. "'ll get more then."

"The fuck you will," Brian says, but Frank doesn't even care because someone is draping a blanket over him, and it smells of cigarettes and rancid sweat and, weirdly, pencil shavings, but it's still the best blanket ever. He thinks he tries to say something to that effect or, like, thank whoever it is, but sleep is dragging him down and Frank doesn't have the energy to resist it.

 

* * *

 

He's conscious of feeling like shit before he's conscious of being, well, conscious. Awake. What the fuck ever. Frank shifts a little bit, feeling all the places where he aches from sleeping all hunched up, and takes a careful breath, wincing. His throat feels like it's full of broken glass and his lungs feel thick, like they're gearing up for full-blown pneumonia but haven't quite got the mucus production into full swing yet. Frank clears his throat a little bit, which fucking hurts, shifting some more as the aches in his hips and knees start to become unendurable, and blinks his eyes open as the murmur of voices around him cuts off.

"Frankie?" Ray. It takes Frank a couple of seconds to blink his gummy eyes into focus, but of course they're all fucking staring at him, his whole fucking band arrayed around the lounge and even Brian looking up over the top of his laptop. "How you feeling?" Ray asks, scrambling up from the other end of the couch like he's going to put his hand to Frank's forehead. Frank glares until he sinks back, cheeks pinking.

"Fine," he manages, ignoring the rasp in his voice and the faint drag in his lungs as he sucks in air. Ugh. "Where are we? 's there coffee?" When he levers himself up, shoving at the blanket that seems to have wrapped itself around his limbs like one of Gerard's fucking squids, the sky outside the window is nearly dark.

Bob snorts, flipping a page in his comic book. "When isn't there fucking coffee?" At least he doesn't argue; Ray's squinting at Frank like he thinks he can diagnose whatever fucking disease has latched onto him this time with the power of his mind or some shit. Mikey's peering at him over the tops of his glasses, and Gerard's staring wide-eyed and worried with his lip caught between his teeth and yet another marker twirling jerkily between his fingers like he's forgotten it isn't a cigarette.

"Right," Frank mumbles; it barely comes out, his voice cracking halfway through the word, but it stings his throat like a motherfucker anyway. Fuck, another few hours and he's going to wish he was dead, he knows it. It takes him a stupid amount of effort to shove the blanket off and lever himself to his feet, half of him freezing and the other half sweating like he's just come off stage.

The bus slows, making a right turn just as Frank's rounding the end of the couch, and he staggers, thrown off balance for a second until Mikey catches his sleeve.

"Dude," Mikey says, but then doesn't continue. His eyebrows are all scrunched up, but Frank doesn't have the energy to decipher them so he just nods tiredly, steadying himself against the counter and fumbling a not-too-disgusting mug out of the collection by the microwave. He's just reaching for the coffee pot when the bus turns again, slowing even further before shuddering to a stop. When Frank shuffles sideways, peering out the window, gas station lights stab into his eyes, and behind that...

"Oh, hey," he only has to clear his throat a little bit, which he's going to count as a win. "Starbucks."

"What?" The Ways both react like someone stuck a pin in them, Gerard scrambling up on the banquette seat to stare out the window. "Shit yeah." The marker he'd been playing with is abandoned on the table as he starts patting himself down. "Fuck, where's my wallet?"

"Burger King too," Bob points out, and that's it; everyone's up and hunting down shoes and cash while Brian tries to shout over the top of them that they're only stopped for gas. Frank takes the opportunity to slide out while they're all distracted, exchanging nods with the driver and stamping his feet into his sneakers as he shuffles across the asphalt toward the not at all enticing gas station mini mart. Their bus isn't the only one pulling in; there's a chorus of shouting voices as bands and techs pile out of buses in search of sustenance, and the dude at the pumps is already looking kind of wide-eyed as Frank trudges past.

Predictably, the little shelf of Tylenol and TheraFlu and DayQuil is labeled with price tags that would make Frank's mom swallow her tongue, as well as a cheery sign informing everyone that more products are available at the register. Frank kind of stands in front of the display for a while, trying to work himself up to actually buying shit while whatever Top 40 bullshit is playing over the PA drones into his ears, so zoned out that he almost jumps out of his skin when a voice comes out of fucking nowhere.

"Frank? Man, you okay?" Mike. Standing a couple shelves down the aisle, staring at Frank in this weird cross between nervousness and bug-eyed worry. He must look like total shit, Frank thinks absurdly, clutching at the edge of a shelf for balance as his heart tries to thump its way out of his body.

"'m fine," he rasps before he can think about it, fumbling a bottle of NyQuil off the shelf. Mike takes an uncertain step toward him, hand held out like he thinks Frank's gonna pass out right here on the gross gas station floor, and fuck if Frank can't _feel_ his concern in the energy radiating off the kid like sunlight. Abruptly, it's like a switch flicks in his brain and he thinks, fuck it. Mike – Frank doesn't even know his fucking last name, for Christ's sake – will be gone in a few days, when Cortez gets back from whatever family shit he'd had to take off for. No one will ever know the difference.

"Man, you kinda look –" the kid starts, just as Frank ducks his head, pretending to trip over the toe of his own shoe. He lurches forward, flailing in what he thinks is a really fucking obviously fake way, but the way the kid reaches out to catch him is predictable as all hell, hands closing around Frank's shoulder and wrist as he pitches up against him. He's warm and solid and so fucking _alive_ , and Frank can feel the jerk of his sharp, indrawn breath where they're pressed together, his fingers slipping sweat-damp against the skin of Frank's arm where his sleeve's ridden up. It's enough; Frank closes his eyes, leaning his full weight against the kid to distract him as he lets his barriers drop and starts to _pull_.

"Whoa, hey!" The couple of seconds it takes for Mike Whoever to 'help' Frank straighten up feel like years, the drain of energy agonizingly slow but as fast as he dares. It's an effort to break the contact; Frank has to force himself to pull his hand away, clenching his fingers so hard around the medicine bottle that it creaks against his palm. His head feels clearer already as he pats Mike's shirt down apologetically, ignoring the urge to let his fingers creep up over the collar as the hunger crawls along his bones, nowhere near sated.

"Fuck, dude, I'm sorry," he mumbles, shuffling back a couple of steps as one of the Offspring's roadies shoulders past with a couple six-packs in each hand.

"Seriously, are you okay?" Mike's eyes flick really obviously from Frank's face to the NyQuil in his hand to the shelf they're standing next to. "You look kind of shitty there, man."

"Kinda," Frank says; when he follows the kid's gaze, he's met with a shelf full of condom packages. He has to swallow back a laugh, painful in his still-raw throat. "Probably contagious, too," he manages; it comes out out snuffly enough that Mike clearly believes him, his face falling really obviously. "Sorry about that, I guess?"

"Aw, shit," the kid mumbles, slumping, as Frank nods a goodbye and shuffles off toward the line that's already formed at the register. Some food and a good night's sleep will have Mike back to his normal energetic self, Frank knows; he'd barely taken anything, really, not enough to begin to fill the gnawing pit in his stomach, but the risk and the guilt are eating at him anyway.

By the time Frank has made it to the front of the line and handed over his debit card to pay for the NyQuil and the biggest bottle of aspirin the clerk has behind the counter, the driver's pulled their bus away from the pumps into the rest stop parking lot. Brian meets him at the bus door with a glare and a single finger pointed up the steps; Frank scowls back, waving the medicine bottles, but can't resist a longing look at the cigarette pinched between Brian's fingers.

"Don't even think it," Brian advises pissily, shifting his hand so the smoke drifts away from Frank. "I don't have time to drag your dumb ass to the emergency room. Get in there and go the hell back to sleep; you have to play tomorrow. And you could at least have got some fucking juice or something."

"Fuck you," Frank rasps. His throat still feels like sandpaper and broken glass, but he thinks maybe the edges are starting to wear away.

"Sleep!" Brian shouts after him as he pulls himself up the stairs, and even knowing that the dude is right, Frank can't resist waving a middle finger vaguely in his direction. The front lounge is empty except for Dan, their driver, pouring coffee into his giant-ass travel mug; he nods hello, keeping a really obvious distance as Frank hunts out a bottle of water to take his meds with. Frank can't even bring himself to be pissed; who could blame a guy for not wanting to catch the zombie death plague?

He's back in his corner of the couch, tucked under the blanket (that still fucking stinks) and halfway back to sleep for real when a sudden rush of voices and footsteps jerks him awake again. Frank tips his head back against the top of the couch, watching the rest of the guys clatter up the steps and through into the lounge, bags of food and trays of cups in hand. And, for some reason, a stuffed T-Rex poking out of the neck of Ray's shirt. Frank blinks at it for a second before Gerard collapses onto the other end of the couch, distracting him.

"Hey, Frankie." He's chewing on his lip again, his hair the kind of complete birds' nest that it only turns into when he's been shoving his hands through it repeatedly. He's holding two giant Starbucks cups, but after a second of staring at them and clearly trying to remember which is which, he holds one out to Frank. "Here. Black."

"...Thanks." Frank reaches out to take it, Gerard's ink-stained fingers cool against his for a moment before he flinches away from the touch. Something twists in Frank's chest, and he has a brief moment of terror that Gerard can _tell_ – but no, it isn't that at all, is it? Fuck. He busies himself in prizing the plastic lid off the cup, inhaling coffee-smell so he doesn't have to look at Gee.

"We got you food, too," Ray offers hopefully, coming around the couch to dump a paper bag into Frank's blanket-covered lap. The smell of hot oil and salt wafts up. "With, like, extra vegetables and shit. And OJ. You're hungry, right?"

"Yeah." Frank can't even laugh at how fucking true it is; he clears his throat, wincing. The fact that he has the best band ever is one more reason why he can't ever slip up.

 

* * *

 

"Hey," someone says close to his ear; Frank blinks crusty eyes open, squinting until his brain works out that he's looking at the top of his bunk, not whatever the hell he'd been dreaming about. He has a vague memory of something about a giant red ocean that slips out of his grasp as Bob's voice says, "Frank? You awake?"

Frank has to clear his throat a couple of times to get any sound out, but he eventually manages a "Yeah," levering himself onto his side to fumble at the curtain. The light stabs into his eyes when he pulls it back; it feels kind of late-ish, like he's slept for a long fucking time. Fuck, now that he's thinking about it, he totally needs to pee, too. "What's up?" he asks, fighting the curtain further back so he can roll out of his bunk. His muscles protest a little bit, stiff from sleep and the ragged remains of yesterday's aches, but objectively speaking he actually feels pretty okay. Well, he doesn't feel like keeling over and dying right here and now, so whatever, it's a fucking improvement.

"Sound check." Bob kind of frowns at him, but he doesn't actually do the forehead-feeling fever check thing because he's a cool dude and not a fucking mother hen like the rest of Frank's band. "You good to go? You were lookin' kinda fucked up yesterday."

"Yeah, yeah, just lemme –" Frank shoulders past Bob, slamming into the bathroom. He pisses for what feels like an hour, stares at his face in the streaky mirror while he washes up. He looks better, he guesses, if not exactly a hundred percent; skin not so gray and waxy, eyes brighter and less bruised. Nothing he can't explain away as tour fatigue and the umpteen layers of grossness that he can _feel_ coating him. He really needs to find a fucking shower.

Bob and his internal tech clock are predictably long gone by the time Frank wanders up to the front of the bus in his second-best jeans and a Dropkick Murphys shirt that isn't his (too big) but is clean (or at least, smells of nothing worse than dust and dryer sheets). There's no evidence of Ray, either, but Gerard is dithering at the counter, fiddling with his stupid sunglasses while Mikey leans up against the doorframe, texting furiously. Worm's looming pointedly behind him, arms folded, looking about thirty seconds away from dragging them all out of the bus by their necks.

"Hey." It even comes out normal-sounding; Frank can still feel some lingering thickness at the back of his throat, but on the whole he's going to count it a win. "What's up?"

Gerard jerks around to stare at him, wide-eyed worry sliding really obviously into confusion as he blinks at Frank. Frank stares back for a second, then rolls his eyes and shoulders Gerard (gently) aside, stealing his sunglasses and a sip of his coffee.

"We were waiting to see if you were gonna need carrying to sound check," Mikey says to his phone, "but I guess you're not sick any more? Or whatever."

"Yeah, I feel okay." Frank shrugs one shoulder, sliding Gerard's sunglasses on and shoving them up so that they hold the long pieces of his hair off his face. "Good drugs, I guess. And coffee," he adds, taking another gulp, which seems to galvanize Gerard into remembering that it's his cup.

"Hey," he protests, grabbing for it; his fingers are cool and twitchy against Frank's as he tries to pry them off the handle. Frank fights back, giggling as the coffee sloshes dangerously, and then almost drops the damn thing anyway as Gerard gives up with a huff, pressing his hand to Frank's forehead.

He's so close. Frank stares up into Gerard's frowning eyes, and grits his teeth against the urge to feed. He's so fucking bright it's almost blinding, all that human energy like an electrical current against Frank's skin, all he'd have to do is let down his barriers...

"I guess you don't have a fever." Gerard's still frowning, puzzled, as he drops his hand. Frank's too busy exhaling in relief to put up a fight when Gee steals his coffee back with a little smug grin curling at the corners of his mouth.

"Think I just needed sleep n' shit," he mumbles, ducking his head. Mikey makes a disbelieving sort of noise, like he wants to say something, but they're all startled into silence when Worm clears his throat. Loudly.

"Sound check," he points out, mildly enough, but he's been with them long enough that Frank can hear the threatening undertone. Clearly Gerard can too; he chugs back the last of the coffee so fast that Frank flinches involuntarily, caught up in memories he'd rather forget.

 

* * *

 

The show that night is fine. Better than fine; Frank feels on the verge of exploding, caught up in the delirious energy of the crowd, and it's like the others catch the edge of the wave too. Mikey doesn't even complain when Frank almost topples him into Bob's kit in the middle of Not Okay; Bob smashes both his sticks down like he's imagining the drumheads are Frank's skull, but Frank's already spinning off, tipping his forehead against the sweat-slick back of Gerard's neck. He can feel the way Gerard tenses at the contact, like he'd pull himself away if there weren't ten thousand kids screaming for them. It makes Frank want to grind his teeth; instead he shoves until Gerard grabs his head, fingers skidding through his hair and dragging him forward to share the mic. He shouts his backup vox from there, right up to the "Trust me!" before he yanks himself away, dropping to his knees to thrash out the end of the song.

It's better, but it's still not _right_ , and Frank stays away from Gerard for the rest of the set, playing to the crowd and his amps and, briefly, the sky when he misjudges his balance and topples from his knees to his back, legs flailing. The fans go fucking crazy at that, and the last couple of songs are kind of fuzzy, a blur of chords and screaming and dizzy excitement that winds him higher and higher. The end of Helena is like crashing back into his body, every cell buzzing, the midsummer air thick and choking in his lungs. He's barely aware of handing off his guitar as he stumbles off the stage, shrugging out of his shirt so the techs can untangle him from the power pack that's dug a permanent bruise into one side of his hip. It isn't until he feels the brush of familiar energy as fingers skid across his shoulder blade, unstrapping the harness, that he realizes it's the kid – Mike, whatever.

"Shit!" Mike snatches his hand away, hissing, as Frank slams his shields closed – far too late. When he turns, stomach bottoming out so fast and hard he thinks he might puke, the kid is shaking his fingers out like he's touched a live wire, his face screwed up. "Fuck, dude," he mumbles, shuffling away a half step that still has him uncomfortably close. "That's some fuckin' static, jeez."

Static. Right. Frank tries for apologetic rather than panicked, has to stop himself from looking around to check who's watching. It's like he can feel every single eye backstage on them. "Sorry about that, man," he offers, making a show of slapping his hand against the metal banding of a flight case as though to earth himself. He twists his arms up behind his back, squirming out of the damn harness himself, and dumps it into the kid's hands with a nod, ignoring the way Mike is now visibly eyeing the ink on his chest and hips. He's got that fucking hopeful, hungry look on his face again, but Frank's too fucking rattled to even let the kid down gently; all he can do is stumble off, soaked shirt balled up in his fist. Jesus _fuck_ , that had been close.

"Frankie?" a voice calls hoarsely from behind him. Gerard; Frank shuts his eyes against the pull of energy crawling across his skin, trying his best to pull his senses in so tight that he won't be able to feel anything. "You okay?" When he opens his eyes, Gee's standing in front of him, a towel slung over his head and another one around his shoulders, holding out what looks to be a clean (or at least dry) shirt like some kind of peace offering. Even his eyes, peeking out from under the disgusting sweat-stained towel, are hopeful and uncertain, every drop of stage strut drained out of him. When Frank just blinks at him, trying to scrape his fucking head together, he sort of shrugs one shoulder. "You're not supposed to be in the sun, right? Your tattoos," he mumbles, and Frank finally gets it together and takes the shirt, which turns out to be the one he'd left backstage for, in fact, this very purpose. Shit, like he needed to feel like more of a fucking moron.

"Thanks." Putting on a dry shirt when he's still all gross is always weird; Frank tugs the hem down over his belt and steals the water bottle Gerard's dangling from his other hand, taking a few good swallows. In the distance, the crowd roars as the next band troop out onto the main stage; Gerard shuffles his feet, inching closer to Frank.

"Are you sure you're okay?" he asks, quiet now like he doesn't want to be overheard even though everyone else has already vanished into the shade of tents and buses. "Frankie, I..."

"I'm fine, man," Frank says, kind of hastily, pushing the empty bottle back into Gerard's hand. "I'm gonna go see if I can scare up a fucking shower, yeah? I'm so fucking gross, I can't even deal."

"...Oh. Yeah." Gerard shrugs again, playing with the corner of his towel. It isn't doing much for him; there's still sweat dripping from the ratty ends of his hair. Frank has an absurd, ridiculous urge out of fucking nowhere to bundle him up in it and scrub his hair dry for him; he shakes his own head, sharply, like that's going to dislodge the thought. Fuck, he needs to get a goddamn handle on himself already. Frank nods farewell, only to stop midstep as Gerard blurts, "I just... I'm gonna change the setlist up again, I think. Tomorrow." He's wringing the end of the towel between his hands now.

"Okay?" Frank feels so fucking wrong-footed it's ridiculous, but Gerard seems weirdly relieved by his reaction, shoulders slumping.

"Okay," he repeats, turning in what Frank thinks is the direction of catering. "I'm gonna – yeah. I'll see you later? Bob was saying something about Die Hard and, like, Chinese food?"

"Cool." Frank nods a couple of times, making a face as the ends of his gross wet hair slide against the side of his face. Fucking disgusting, seriously. "Later, man. Save me a spring roll, yeah?"

 

* * *

 

"Frank..." Jamia sighs staticky down the phone, frustration so evident that it puts Frank's hackles up.

"What?" he demands, shoving one of the weird flat hotel pillows behind his back to prop himself up where the headboard's stabbing into his ribs. He's tense, wound up, his feet scraping against the slippery bedspread like they want to be pacing even though Frank doesn't dare waste the energy.

"Baby, I..." Jamia trails off again, and he hears her shift, Sweet Pea yipping excitedly in the background. When Frank closes his eyes he can almost, almost imagine that he's sitting at the other end of the couch while the dogs pounce at her wriggling feet. Fuck, he misses her.

"I'm handling it, okay?" is what comes out of his mouth, because he's a fucking defensive asshole. "It's fine."

"It isn't," Jamia snaps back, making him flinch and glance at the bathroom door like Bob's some kind of goddamn ninja who's gonna hear her through the noise of the shower and the fucking _phone line_ , Jesus. So he's maybe not as fine as he'd like to be, what the fuck ever.

"It's only a couple more weeks," he says, or tries to; a tickle rises up in his throat with the words, turning into a hacking, wheezing cough that leaves his chest aching when he finally forces it down.

"Yeah, you're handling it," Jamia says flatly while Frank's still curled over his knees, trying to breathe normally. "You're not energy-starved at all. Jesus fucking wept, Frank."

"Shut up," Frank manages to rasp in response. Gravity's dragging at him, so he lets himself tip sideways until he's lying on his side, his face pressed into the soft coolness of the other pillow. It feels good against his skin and he closes his eyes. He's maybe kind of fucked, yeah.

"Frankie, please?" Jamia's saying in his ear, in her worried voice that's almost as irritating as the guys' constant forehead groping. "You _have to feed_. I don't understand why you're doing this to yourself now, there's got to be so many fucking people there. You're in a different place every day, for Christ's sake."

"They're our fans," Frank says into the pillow. They've had this discussion before, and it never leads to anything but frustration on both their parts. He pulls his knees up closer to his chest, trying to tuck his feet under his body or the pillow or something because they're fucking freezing. "Look, J, it's only a few more weeks. I can get by until then – I can manage, okay?"

"Fucking Christ." She sounds so tired that it hurts Frank's chest. "A few more weeks of this and you're either gonna put yourself in the fucking hospital or you're gonna hurt someone for real, Frankie. You've seen what fucking happens when people lose it, you know I'm right."

"I won't." Frank pushes his face into the pillow, his voice coming out muffled. He wants to say more, has this totally convincing argument lined up about how he knows his limits and shit, but he gets ambushed by another surprise coughing fit that leaves him hunched over and wheezing with the phone pressed against the side of his neck. When he finally fumbles it back up to his ear, Jamia's mid-rant.

"–know you think you're fucking Superman but you can only push yourself so far before you hit the fucking consequences, Frank! Jesus Christ," she adds in an exhale, the line breaking up momentarily into static so that Frank imagines little fragments of her voice spinning off into the ether, sprinkled across the miles between them like snow. Frank blinks slowly, focusing on the scratched wooden corner of the nightstand, and wonders if it means anything that he feels totally lucid but he's having total Gerard thoughts.

"I just," comes spilling out of his mouth without his permission. "I just need to fucking deal with it," and he means his own stupid issues, the way he keeps stumbling over the awareness of Gerard's presence every time the hunger spikes in his bones, but it must be the last straw for Jamia because she hisses like she's biting off a mouthful of curses, startling him silent.

"I can't do this," she says, clipped, and Frank scrabbles to shove himself upright, because what the fuck? "I can't – I _won't_ sit here and watch you run yourself into the fucking ground like this just because you're afraid of who you are."

"J, wait –"

"No, Frank." She sounds so fucking tight, so controlled, but there's a thickness in her voice that just devastates him, because if she's crying, this is more than just another fight. "Call me when you've got your head out of your ass and fucking fed, okay? I love you."

"J, please –" Frank breaks off at the dial tone, pulling the phone away from his ear to stare at the little Call Ended message blinking on the screen. It's harder to focus on than it should be, and when he blinks a couple of times, his eyes feel wet and raw. "Fuck," he mutters, slumping back against the headboard, letting the sharp corners poke him wherever they like. The inside of his head sounds like a wind tunnel, a rush of white noise, and Frank can feel himself shaking, faint tremors beneath the surface. He doesn't hear the shower shut off or the bathroom door opening, only Bob's voice.

"What the hell happened to you? You look even shittier than you did half an hour ago."

"Fuck you," Frank croaks, but it's weak and he knows it. When he looks up, his eyes focus themselves automatically on Bob's stupid wet blond face, his aura so thick and living around him that it's almost visible. Only the fear that Bob will think Frank's ogling him and kick his ass lets Frank force his gaze aside. "I just – fight with Jamia," he mumbles eventually, when Bob's expectant silence finally demands an answer from him. "I don't wanna talk about it." That's enough, with Bob; it's one of the awesome things about him, he doesn't worry at that kind of shit or try and poke his nose in when Frank's pissy and just wants everyone to shut the fuck up. Like now: Bob just nods in this quiet way that manages to give the impression of understanding and sympathy, and goes over to his own bed, leaving Frank to curl himself up in the covers and wait. He knows he needs to sleep, as soon and as much as he can, but half of him is expecting Jamia to call back, even though he doesn't dare himself because he doesn't want to piss her off even _more_.

Sleep drags him under anyway. Frank wakes in the morning to the shudder of Bob kicking the bed on his way past, and when he blinks his eyes into focus, there's a message blinking silently from his phone. _I'm not breaking up with you, okay? Just, call me when you've stopped being a dumbass._

 

* * *

 

Jamia's right, of course; the longer he goes without feeding, the harder it gets. Even stupid shit like sitting around watching movies and throwing potato chips at his bandmates takes more energy than Frank can spare, and he keeps finding himself zoning out like a fucking computer going into standby, surfacing to find he's missed anything from a few minutes to the last three hours. He starts spending most of the time he's not on stage in his bunk, huddled up under the covers for warmth and trying to ignore the constant pinch of hunger that gnaws at him.

He texts Jamia, angry messages telling her he's fine and in control, because he is, damn it. He has a handle on this. She doesn't reply, until the night in Canada when Frank's flat out in his bunk, still soaked with sweat and not quite able to catch his breath even though it's been a good hour since they got off stage, and his fingers are so shaky on the keys that it's a real effort to stab out _I love you._

_I love you too_ comes back almost immediately, the phone buzzing in his hand, then, _fucking moron_. Frank can't even bring himself to contest that, really – that's the worst part, he knows he's being a motherfucking idiot here. It's just that every time he thinks about it, thinks about picking someone out of the crowd, a stranger or chance acquaintance, and taking them off somewhere secluded to get intimate with their fucking life force (among other things; if there's a better way than sex to distract someone from the fact that they're suddenly really fucking tired, Frank doesn't know what it is), Gerard's stupid face pops up in his head, wide-eyed and confused and sad. It's so fucking irrational that Frank wants to punch himself in the face sometimes, because Gee's stupid (and no doubt temporary) crush on him is no reason to sit here and starve himself, but here he is and he just... can't. Not now, not here, where privacy is an illusion and the only faces that don't change every night stay the same.

"Dude, what?" Ray says, his bunk curtain rattling as he stoops to rummage for something. Frank blinks at him, head suddenly pounding with the awareness of his energy, so close and so bright. It's like he can hear the blood rushing in his veins, the steady pump of his heartbeat calm and strong. Frank's own heart speeds up without his permission and he has to fight to keep from tensing, his muscles tingling.

"Uh?" It's more a confused grunt than anything. His throat is raw and raspy again, fucking great.

"You say something?" Ray's peering at him, worry plastered all over his face. Frank musters up the energy to shrug, flopping heavily onto his side. "You okay, Frankie? You look like shit."

"Yeah, what's new." Frank presses the side of his face into the pillow, even though it's sweat-damp and smells pretty gross. "I'm fine, man, just let me sleep."

He thinks he zones out again after that, asleep or shut down or whatever, because the next thing he hears is hushed voices on the other side of the lounge door, Ray's high tones clear even though he thinks he's whispering.

"–cking passed out on me, he looks fucking awful but he's not hot or anything. Maybe he has mono. Do you think he has mono?"

"He doesn't have a fever." Bob. Great, Frank thinks, struggling to push himself up on one elbow. What the hell fucking time is it, anyway? He has no idea.

"He's not, like, _sick_ ," – Gerard – "but he's definitely sick." There's a noise of agreement that suggests Mikey's in on this band meeting-slash-conspiracy too. Frank scowls, lifting himself up to shout as best he can.

"I'm not fucking sick!" It comes out hoarse and raw and his voice breaks at the end and by the time he's done clearing his throat and waiting for the bunk to stop swaying, the guys have shuffled through the doorway and are staring at him like he's on his fucking deathbed or something. The array of worried faces is actually kind of funny, Mikey's concerned eyebrows and Bob's dubious face and Ray's anxious twitching, but Frank's amusement drains out when his eyes reach Gerard because he looks like he's the one who's ill, hair wild from tugging and lips bitten raw, eyes wide and bruised.

"Frankie," he starts, shuffling a little further in so he can wedge himself awkwardly into the side of his own bunk. Frank shakes his head, not wanting to hear it.

"Seriously. I'm just fucking tired, okay; I'm fine on stage, aren't I?" He knows it's true; even if his usual shit is dialed down a couple of notches, he still gets caught up in the music and the thrill and the whirlwind of energy the fans throw back at them. Today (yesterday?) was kind of a blur, but he definitely remembers pressing up against Gerard's stupid flak vest during Prison and letting himself be pulled around by his tie. He's not really sure when or how he got out of his show clothes, though.

"Yeah, but..." Gerard trails off, looking conflicted, and Mikey sidles over to nudge him with an elbow. Some arcane Way telepathy is exchanged before Gerard kind of nods and sighs, leaning over to brace himself on the edge of Frank's bunk. "Frankie, what if... What if you sit out a couple nights? Like, we got a travel day Sunday anyway, so you can just, like, recuperate and shit."

Frank's shaking his head before Gee's even finished, tucking his hands into the sleeves of his hoodie so he doesn't reach out. He's so close, bare ink-stained fingers and bitten nails, and Frank can feel his heartbeat, feel the pulse of life through his fucking veins, and it steals his breath because it's never been this strong, this insistent before. "No. No way, I'm fucking playing. I'm playing the show," he insists, and he tries to shoulder Gerard's hands away so he can sit up but the contact is too much and he has to pull away, curling over himself as he tries to lock down his fucking treacherous senses, his body that just _needs_. "When's sound check?" He sounds strangled to his own ears. "Someone better fucking wake me up for that."

"Frank..." Ray starts, touching Gerard's shoulder to nudge him aside, but Frank shakes his head again, insistent, and he can feel it along his fucking buzzing skin when they sigh and shift and capitulate, exchanging worried looks.

"Swear it, motherfuckers," he insists, tipping his head back down to the pillow because it's the most solid thing he can feel. Their reluctant voices follow him down into fucked up dreams of running and chasing and the taste of blood, copper and salt in his mouth.

 

* * *

 

The show that night is fucking epic; they drew the last slot so the kids are fired up and ready to end on a high, and they're all energized by that, like Frank's not the only one near to exploding from the excess excitement in the air. Gerard's on fucking fire, too, screaming into his mic and strutting the stage, pressing up against Frank and Mikey and even Ray when he isn't in the middle of shredding his solos. They play Halos as the first closer, because it gives Gerard a chance to get some water and rest his voice, and Frank rips into the chords as Ray crashes out of the intro, bouncing on his toes and feeling like he really could fly.

Walking off stage is like crashing down again, the earth slamming into him between one step and the next. Frank staggers, grabs for something solid, snatches his hands away when it turns out to be someone's arm, hot and thrumming with energy that shrieks up against what's left of his shields. He's dimly aware of someone taking his guitar away, disentangling him from his monitors and harness, but it's taking all his strength just to hold in the urge to latch on and _feed_ , damn the bystanders. He's aware of voices around him, meaningless noises, and when he fights himself down enough to blink his eyes clear, there's someone in front of him, familiar face and voice raised, reaching out. A voice somewhere in the back of Frank's mind whispers _Cortez_ , but there's a bigger, more insistent part of him murmuring, _food_. _Prey. **Kill**_. Saliva floods Frank's mouth; his stomach lurches and he staggers back, heaving involuntarily, swallowing bile. What the fuck is happening to him?

"Shit, he's gonna puke –"

"Fuck, Frankie, what are you –"

"Here, sit him down..."

There are hands grasping at him, fingers skidding painfully across his slick skin. Frank tears away before his body can betray him further, shoulders blindly past the milling techs and frightened, washed-out faces of his band, and runs.

He doesn't remember how he gets back to the bus, it's like his brain's just... checked out. Frank struggles back to semi-consciousness in the familiar stinking darkness of his bunk, too aware of the dry rasp of the sheets against his skin, the cramping ache in his jaw where he's been grinding his teeth. When he tries to shift, it's like a spark racing up his spine, and he swallows a groan, panting in quick breaths that sting his lungs. It's as if every muscle in his body is trying to draw itself up, his fingers curling into claws as his bones shiver with the knowledge that there are humans just out of sight, their energy as bright and alive as the blood in their veins, and Frank has no idea what the fuck is happening but the rush of hunger that courses through him, drawing his lips back from his teeth in a silent snarl, is terrifying.

It's like he trembles there on the edge for a long time, trying to force his body to unwind as his mind runs in increasingly frantic circles. Frank doesn't hear the lounge door open, but he doesn't need to; the sudden prickle along his nerves makes him grit his teeth as someone – Gerard, Frank can feel him, _smell_ him – settles to a crouch in the aisle, leaning in.

"Frankie? You awake?" It's a nervous whisper; Frank scents fear, salt filling his mouth. He's shaking with the effort it takes to keep himself still. "Brian says he's gonna take you to the hospital if you're not better tomorrow," Gerard says, leaning almost all the way into Frank's bunk to peer down at him. His hand hovers for a moment before settling onto Frank's forehead, and that simple brush of energy against his skin is what finally shatters Frank's crumbling shields beyond repair.

His body moves of its own accord, mind empty of anything but _PREY_ as he lunges, hands clutching at Gerard's shoulders, teeth fastening onto his neck. Gerard makes a startled, pained noise, but his pulse is jumping crazily under Frank's tongue, and the last horrified fragments of Frank's will are lost in the hot flood of energy that fills him.


	3. Intermission: Ray

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is officially the weirdest thing that has ever happened to Ray's band.

Ray's hanging out in the back studio, ostensibly playing with some tracks (but mostly just trying to stay out of the way of Gerard's increasingly circular argument with Brian about when Frank's ass is going to get dragged to the emergency room), when his phone rings. This is not an unusual occurrence in itself, but the name staring up at him from the screen when he fishes it out of his pocket is enough of a surprise that Ray almost forgets to answer before it goes to voicemail. He's pretty sure Frank can't actually be calling him from home right now.

"Uh, hey?" Real smooth there, Toro.

"Hi, Ray." It takes him a moment to place Jamia's voice; she sounds kind of weird, he thinks. Maybe it's the line? "How are things there?"

"Uh, okay?" Ray stares around the lounge like his laptop or guitar are going to tell him what he's supposed to be saying here. "Well, Frankie's sick again, but I guess you know that or you wouldn't be calling me, huh?" It's kind of weird that she's calling him, actually; she must be worried. He's probably her best bet for someone who's gonna be on the bus no matter what.

"Fuck." Her voice in his ear is clipped and angry. "How sick is he? Fever?"

"Well, you know." Ray twists his headphone cord around his fingers. "Not really? He looked like he was starting a cold a week or so back, coughing and shit, but mostly since then he's just been sleeping, like, every minute we're not on stage. And looking like shit – I thought he was gonna hurl after the show this afternoon. Gee's calling Brian, so, yeah, I'm pretty sure we're gonna take him to, like, the emergency room." Some kind of doctor, anyway; the tour medics are great with everyday tour shit like food poisoning and falling off things, but Frank's germs are always pretty hardcore.

"Fuck," Jamia says again, in this weirdly conversational tone that kind of freaks Ray out a little. "Shit, fuck. Okay." She kind of breathes down the phone at him a bit, which doesn't help with the freaking out. "Okay. Ray, listen, I really don't have any right to ask you this, but Frank's being a fucking stubborn asshole and refusing to look after himself, so I'm gonna need you to help me with this, okay?"

"Uh." That sounds kind of... "Are you – I mean, I don't want to, like, get involved in you guys' business, you know?" Ray swallows. "I mean, if you want some help getting, like, flights and shit to come out here, I guess I can, but..."

"It's fine," Jamia says, firm. "I need you to help me keep Frank out of the emergency room, okay? It won't help, and you know what he's like, he needs to be beaten into taking fucking care of himself."

"I guess." Ray fiddles with the headphone jack some more, loosening it fractionally before wedging it back flush with the casing. "You want me to, like, make him take medicine and shit?" He can probably do that. "I can, I guess I can probably do that?"

"In a way, I guess." There's something in her voice Ray doesn't quite get. "It – this is going to sound weird, okay, but it's important. I need you to go find Frank and – well, touch him for me."

"...Uh." Ray blinks, wondering if he's being pranked. What the fuck? He starts to say so, but a sudden loud thumping noise from the other side of the door, followed by a strangled groan, startles him silent. "Uh," he says again, before shaking himself. Fuck, that had sounded... "Hold on, okay?" he says into the phone, ignoring Jamia's sharp interrogative sound as he disentangles himself from his cables and clambers to his feet. Maybe Frankie rolled out of his bunk again? He doesn't usually do that when he's not drunk, it's more of a Gerard thing, but maybe sick works the same way? Ray doesn't know, but then he's always had a bottom bunk, so falling out has never really been a consideration.

Whatever he'd been expecting, the sight of Frank and Gerard tumbled in a heap in the aisle definitely isn't it. Ray feels his eyes go wide and his face go stupidly hot, because his first thought is that he's interrupted... something. They're just sort of slumped there, though, even if Frank's face is kind of buried in Gee's neck so that it looks like he's sucking on it, and Gerard's twitching weakly, like he wants to flail away but can't. What Ray can see of his face is slack and pale, like no one's home, like he'd used to look when he was wasted as fuck and two seconds from passing out. What the fuck. "What the fuck," Ray says, and, "Frankie? Gee?" Neither of them respond, but Jamia's shouting from the phone.

"Ray! Ray, what's happening?!"

"Frankie's, like," Ray tries for more appropriate words and comes up short. The air feels chokingly thick, and he wonders if he's imagining it or if Gerard's twitching really is slowing down. "He's – biting Gee or something?" He jumps a little when Jamia swears so loud the line breaks into static.

"Shit! Get them apart, NOW!" she all but screams into his ear, and Ray freezes for a second, paralyzed, before he can force himself to move, stumbling forward and grabbing at the back of Frank's shirt to drag him off Gerard. There's a gross sucking noise as Frank's mouth pulls away from Gerard's throat, and Frank makes an angry animal noise, his hands scrabbling to cling onto Gerard as Gee's head flops back hard against the floor. Ray has to drop the phone, Jamia's strained voice going tinny and distant, to yank Frank back and away with both hands, but it's as if all the fight goes out of him the moment he loses contact with Gerard. His body goes limp and heavy, collapsing onto the carpeted floor of the aisle, and when Ray lets go of his shirt, half of him ready to make another grab if he has to (the other half is freaking out silently because what the fuck? What the fuck!), Frank just lies there, half-curled on his side between the bunks and breathing slow and deep like he was sleepwalking all along. Sleep-molesting. What the hell.

Ray shakes his head to snap himself out of it, inching warily past Frank so he can get to Gerard. He only thinks to scoop his phone back up when Jamia's tiny, tinny voice starts yelling his name over and over, and when he hits the speaker button she almost deafens him.

"Ray! Ray! Talk to me! Ray!"

"Whoa, okay." Ray winces, dropping the phone onto someone's bunk and shuffling around to kneel on Gerard's other side so he can keep an eye on Frank at the same time. He doesn't seem to have moved, and neither does Gee when Ray prods hesitantly at his cheek. Well, his head wobbles a bit, and holy shit that's a hell of an impressive hickey already starting on his neck. There are actual teeth marks, angry red and dug into the flesh. Whoa.

"Are they touching at all?" Jamia demands in a voice that's barely quieter. "Is Gerard breathing? Check his pulse. I can't hear Frank, is he conscious at all? Don't touch his skin!"

"I pulled him off, he's like asleep or something," Ray reports, poking Gerard hopefully again. There's no response, but he's definitely breathing, slow and kind of shallow. He relays this information dutifully, trying to tug Gee around by the shoulders so he's not slumped so awkwardly against the ends of the bunks.

"Fuck. I'm gonna fucking kill him," Jamia says, just as Ray hears the distant hiss of the bus door opening, the tramp of feet up the steps. He hopes it's Bob; Gerard's not tall, but Ray knows from experience that he's awkward to manhandle places. Also, Mikey will maybe freak out a bit. Fuck, Ray is maybe freaking out a bit.

"Uh," he says, his voice coming out even higher and stupider than usual, and kind of fast. "Do you maybe want to tell me what's going on here, like, what the fuck? Do we need to call 911? Gee looks – not so good, you know? And Frank, and the guys are gonna be back, and this is kind of freaking me out here, you know, this is not a normal thing that is going on here." Ray kind of runs out of breath right as the door swings open behind him, and when he twists Bob's shoulders are filling up the doorway, his brow wrinkling as he stares down at Ray kneeling and Gerard and Frank fucking littered across the floor, and Ray is so fucking glad to see him that he can't even make words, just gesture weakly.

"What the fuck," Bob says eventually, flatly, and Jamia makes a funny noise over the speakerphone.

"Is that Bob? Fine, whatever, he can help. I need you to check Gerard's pulse for me, okay? He could – I don't know how far gone Frank was, how much he took, but unconsciousness isn't good." She kind of sounds like she wants to throttle someone, Ray thinks. Also, what the fuck?

"What do you mean, how much Frank took?" he demands shrilly, at the same time as Bob says slowly, "What did Frank take?"

"Explanations later," Jamia says. "First aid now. Check his fucking pulse!"

"On it." Bob shoulders Ray aside, stooping over Gerard, and by the time Ray's done trying not to fall on his ass, Bob has two fingers pressed over the rapidly forming bruise on Gerard's neck, his eyes on his watch. "Uh." He kind of frowns, pushing his fingers in harder, and Ray scrambles to grab Gerard's hand as he twitches faintly, like it maybe hurts him. "Well, the good news is he has one," Bob is telling Jamia, ignoring Ray even though they're totally jammed against each other in the narrow aisle. "Weak, though."

"He's kind of cold," Ray puts in, squeezing Gerard's limp hand hopefully.

"Fuck." Jamia sounds pretty grim. "Okay, you need to get him into bed, keep him warm, that's the most important thing."

"Right." Bob looks around quickly, then motions Ray around to Gerard's other side. "Toro, get his feet. On three," and they heave and swear under Gerard's limp weight but manage to get him tipped into his bunk after a few seconds of awkward staggering in the narrow space. Ray fusses with the covers, tucking the comforter around him and dragging Mikey's down from the bunk above to layer over the top.

"What else?" Bob is asking Jamia, turning to stare at Frank where he's curled up in the aisle and all but snoring. "I should check Frank –"

"Don't touch his skin!" Jamia snaps, stopping them both in their tracks. Ray exchanges a glance with Bob, knowing he's got to be kind of wild-eyed. It makes him feel better to see that Bob looks pretty taken aback, too, and oh fuck, that's footsteps in the front lounge...

"Hey, Gee, did you –" Mikey pushes the door open, poking his head into the bunk area and falling silent as he sees them there. His eyebrows arch up, then draw down, and all that Ray can think is that he really fucking hopes the voices he can hear at the front of the bus belong to their crew and not Pete fucking Wentz. "Uh," Mikey says, managing to cram a whole album's worth of meaning into one non-word. Ray can see the moment he catches sight of Gerard, passed out in the bunk under the double layer of blankets, the way he goes completely still. "What's happening?"

"Hi Mikey." Jamia gets in there first, and Mikey kind of blinks in surprise, attention redirected to Ray's phone where it's still laying in – fuck, Frank's bunk. "Seriously, guys, don't touch Frank's skin, okay, and for fuck's sake keep him away from Gee. If he hasn't woken up by now he's probably just sleeping it off, but, uh," Ray hears her pause to swallow. "Fuck. Just, put him in a bunk or wherever."

"Put him in a bunk but don't touch him," Bob mutters to himself, but he's already dragging a blanket out of Frank's bunk, holding the phone out until Ray snaps out of his head enough to take it from him.

"Guys," Mikey says in this totally tight tone, and Ray kind of shrugs helplessly at him, backing up warily as Bob scoops Frank up into the blanket and dumps him into his bunk still tangled in it, yanking the curtain almost closed. "Jamia?" Mikey goes on, "That's you, right? What the fuck?"

"Good question." Bob backs off warily like he thinks Frank might leap right out of the bunk to attack him. For all Ray knows, that's an actual likelihood here.

"It's a long fucking story, but the short version is Frank's an idiot," Jamia says, and Ray has a weird disconnected second of _oh man, wouldn't wanna be that guy_ before he can snap himself out of it. "He'll be fine, Gerard's more important right now. Keep an eye on his breathing, and see if you can get him to take some liquids – warm milk with sugar would be best, but sugar water at least. Fucking spoon-feed him if you have to, I'm not even kidding."

Fuck, Ray thinks. He turns to head out to the kitchenette, realizes he's still holding his phone, and hesitates long enough that Bob shoulders past, clearly still in his Emergency Bob Mode where practical and necessary shit trumps explanations. Ray fucking loves having Bob in the band, for serious.

"What's the matter with him?" Mikey's voice is as frantic as Ray's ever heard as he contorts himself half into Gerard's bunk, feeling at his brother's face and shaking him a little, recoiling visibly when his head flops limply on his neck. "Gerard. Gee!"

"He's breathing," Ray says in an attempt to be helpful that falls pretty flat; Mikey blinks up at him, wide-eyed and horrified, and then he's feeling for Gerard's pulse, trying to pry up an eyelid despite the relative gloom in the bunks. Ray flips on the bunk light, to be helpful, but the way it casts a waxy pallor across Gerard's face, deep shadowed bruises under his eyes, is unsettling, reminiscent of the bad old days.

"Fuck," Mikey almost moans, patting fruitlessly at Gerard's cheeks as Jamia's staticky voice tries to reassure him. Ray just pats his shoulder, feeling fifteen different kinds of useless, and then Bob is back with a mug and spoon and an irate Brian tailing him, and it's several seconds of crowded chaos before Jamia manages to shout them all down.

"–up! Everyone shut up, okay. Is someone looking after Gerard?"

"Bob's on it," Ray says before Brian can open his mouth to demand to know why his lead singer needs looking after and what the hell is going on. Again. Worm is looming in the doorway, regarding them all like he's not quite sure whether to be worried or disturbed. Mikey's hovering over Bob's shoulder, clutching at Gerard's hand.

"Right." She sounds exhausted, and Ray can hear the sound of something creaking in the background. "I guess I owe you guys an explanation..."


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Frank wakes up, freaks out, and has the second most awkward conversation in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh hey I'm not dead! Uh, while this is technically an ongoing WIP, it's my fluff-brain fic for when I'm burnt out on other stuff, so expect long absences esp. with BBB in progress.

Frank wakes slowly, surfacing from near-psychedelic dreams to a feeling of deep satiation that wraps blissful, languorous warmth around every limb. His head is fuzzy, thoughts gluey and unraveled, and he lets them chase themselves around like puppies, shifting and pushing the side of his face into the softness of the pillow. He feels so _good_. It isn't until he stretches, a yawn sneaking up his throat, that things start to feel wrong, his elbow and one heel thudding into the side of the bunk and the waist of his jeans digging in as he twists. Wait, what?

Frank's eyes snap open, and the dimness of his bunk is familiar enough, the chinks of light seeping around the edges of the curtains, but there's a cold seed of panic growing in his belly because he doesn't remember going to sleep. He doesn't remember anything except hunger, dark and endless, and the thought is enough to have him scrabbling at the curtains, horror caught like a lump in his throat.

"Oh." Mikey's voice is flat; it takes a second for his face to swim into focus as Frank blinks against the light, but it's blank and unreadable. "You're awake." He's perched on a stool in the aisle, half-turned toward Frank's bunk, but... "You fucking asshole."

Frank barely registers the words; it's like he can feel his heart shriveling in his chest as his eyes slide along Mikey's outstretched arm to his hand that's resting on the edge of the bunk, tense spindly fingers wrapped around his brother's limp ones.

"Fuck." The word rips out of his throat as though it's taking a part of him with it. Frank shoves upright, all but flinging himself out of his bunk and landing in a painful tangle in the aisle, smacking his head against Mikey's bony knee and his hip against the floor. "Fuck, fuck, no –"

"Don't even think it." Mikey shoves him away, his own body interposed between Frank and Gerard's pale, unmoving form. Frank can feel the anger and tension radiating from Mikey's usually self-contained aura, crackling along his every horrified nerve, but he can't feel Gerard at all. Fuck, he's going to throw up.

"Mikes..." His voice cracks, and he has to hang onto the edge of his bunk to keep from crumpling into a terrified ball. "Is he – I didn't – fuck."

"He's alive. Fuck you." Mikey folds his arms, staring down at Frank, who's busy having an aneurism from sheer relief. "Jamia told us everything, we've been taking care of him. You fucking dick," he adds almost conversationally.

"I..." Frank can't continue; it's like his whole world is crumpling around him, everything he's fought and struggled to build for himself crashing down to bury him. He can't breathe. "I didn't – Mikey – _Gee_." Fuck, Gerard. Frank reaches out – Gerard has to be okay, he _has_ to – but Mikey blocks him, slapping his hand aside.

"I said don't." Flatly, like he isn't even angry, but Frank knows better.

"I'm not gonna – Mikes, I need to know he's okay." Frank grabs at Mikey's jeans, not even caring that he's begging. "I need to know how much I – how bad it is."

"Don't touch him," Mikey says flatly, and Frank flinches back.

"I won't hurt him," he blurts. "I swear, Mikes."

"You mean you won't hurt him any more," Mikey mutters, and Frank just ducks his head, nodding, because he can't even deny that.

"I'm sorry," he says, and, "I just – when he's okay, once I know he's okay, I'll go, okay, but I have to make sure..." His eyes are hot and itchy; Frank presses the heels of his hands into them, trying to breathe. Everything he's done has been for this band that's all he's ever wanted, and now he's fucked it all up; he thinks it would hurt, if the other ninety-nine percent of him wasn't busy freaking the hell out. He can't remember anything after coming offstage earlier – yesterday? – can't remember how much of Gerard's life force he'd drained, but it had to have been way too much to even begin to sate that kind of hunger. What if Gerard's so depleted he never wakes up? Frank's heard the stories.

Mikey's kind of quiet for a while, just letting Frank sit there on the floor with his misery, but eventually he shifts, folding himself back down the stool. "If I let you – can you, like, tell how long it'll take him to wake up?"

"Huh?" Frank blinks up at him – his eyes are fucking swimmy, welling up no matter how hard he digs his fingernails into his palms. "Uh. Maybe?"

Mikey eyes him some more, like he's considering it. "Jamia said to just keep him warm and feed him, like, broth and sugar water and stuff."

"That's –" Frank has to clear his throat. Fuck, Jamia. He doesn't deserve her. He owes her so hard. "That sounds right. I – can I?" He lifts a hand, and Mikey squints at it for a second like it might bite him, or fly at Gerard's throat. He doesn't try to stop him or anything, though, so Frank shuffles forward until he's leaning up against the edge of Gerard's bunk, hyper-conscious of Mikey's narrow gaze as he holds his shaking hand over Gerard's forehead, not daring to touch. Gerard doesn't stir, but this close Frank can see the slow rise and fall of his chest under what looks like at least three sets of blankets. He's pale, his eyes sunken and bruised, but Frank can feel the low thrum of his energy now, drawn in tight as his body works to replenish itself. He's sleeping deeply, unnaturally still for a guy whose thrashing and nightmares have woken them all up any number of times in the last year, but it's sleep, not unconsciousness.

The relief is so great that Frank sags down into himself, hunching over his knees and pressing his forehead against the stiff denim of the stage jeans he's still wearing. "Fuck," he whispers, muffled.

"Frank?" Mikey's voice is tight, and Frank struggles to lift his head enough to look at him.

"He's okay," he manages to choke out. "He's just sleeping – he won't wake up for a while, I don't think, but it's not – he'll be fine." Thank _fuck_.

"Yeah." Mikey's voice is neutral, but his eyebrows unknot a little bit. Frank drops his head down onto his knees again, breathing around the giant spiky lump in his throat.

"Mikes?" The door creaks as Ray pokes his head around it. "Is – oh!" He yanks the door open so hard it flies back, turning to shout back into the lounge, "Frank woke up!" There's a sudden clatter of feet hitting the floor, moving closer.

Fuck. Frank shoves himself to his feet, backing up toward the other end of the bunk area. He has to keep hold of the edges of the bunks to stay upright, his knees threatening to dump him back onto the carpet at any second. Mikey blinks up at him from his perch on the stool as Ray is shouldered through the doorway by first Bob and then Brian, all their eyes fixed accusingly on Frank.

"I'll go," Frank blurts before any of them can open their mouths to accuse him. Fuck, the bus is moving, the road rumbling up through the floor into his feet. "Next stop. I'll go, I won't – Cortez can do my parts, you can say I'm sick, that I quit, whatever you like, just..."

"Shut the fuck up," Bob says, folding his arms across his chest. Ray nods emphatically, his hair shaking.

"You're not fucking going anywhere, Iero." Brian looks like he might actually explode, fuck. Frank digs his fingernails into his palm, tries to breathe, tries not to throw up.

"What the fuck." Ray's voice gets even squeakier than usual when he's upset. "You want to leave? What do you think we're gonna do?"

"We ought to punch you in the fucking face," Bob puts in evenly, "but Gerard gets dibs. Not that he will."

"I..." Frank can't think of a single thing to say. He'd let them punch him in the face. Hell, he'd let Gerard punch him as many times as he wanted if he'd just wake up, if it'd make up for...

"We're supposed to be family, asshole," Mikey says quietly. "You're supposed to trust us."

"Yeah, you've gotta tell us this shit." Ray's practically wringing his hands, tapping chord-shapes spasmodically into his palm, his eyes huge. "We could have helped, Frankie, you know? We would have helped."

"I..." Frank starts again, but Mikey interrupts before he can find the words to explain.

"I'm fucking pissed at you, dude, but not for –" he shrugs one shoulder in Gerard's direction. "Well, kind of. But you should've fuckin' told us before you flipped out and tried to eat my brother." He says it so flatly that Bob kind of makes a choking noise, and Brian rolls his eyes.

"Jamia filled us in on the whole vampire deal," Ray says earnestly, and oh, even freaked out to hell and back Frank bristles instinctively at the word. "We get it now."

"I..." Frank screws his eyes shut."Fuck, you guys." He has to stop and clear his throat before he can go on. "I'm sorry. I just – you don't – fuck. I'm sorry," he says again.

"Apologize to Gee," Mikey says drily. Frank flinches, staring down at his feet as he nods. Of course he's going to –

"Guess you get to explain this shit to him, too," Bob mutters, "if he ever fuckin' wakes up." Ray makes a worried noise like he can't help it, looking back and forth between them, and Frank nods hastily, trying to project reassurance despite the nausea that churns in his stomach every time he remembers. Remembers what he _did_ , fuck.

"He's just sleeping." Fuck, fuck, mother of fucking fuck, he wants to crawl into a hole and die. He wants to never wake up, the way Gerard had been so fucking close to. "You should keep feeding him if you can, he'll get better sooner. What – is there sound check? Did you cancel?"

"Tomorrow," Brian says tersely, crossing his arms over his chest. "It's Sunday, you've been out for about fifteen hours. ETA in Atlanta is forty minutes or so, and you guys have a local radio spot and an interview with Spin. You can handle that without Gee, right?"

"Guess we'll have to," Bob says, dry. Ray snorts a high-pitched and apparently involuntary giggle, because he claps a hand over his mouth, looking kind of mortified. Mikey just rolls his eyes, turning back to Gerard.

"I'm gonna stay with him." His tone is as flat and serious as he ever gets, and Brian doesn't even argue, just shrugs, already tapping something into his Blackberry as he walks back out into the lounge. Bob turns and follows without a word, and Frank looks back and forth between Ray and Mikey, eyes flinching away from Gerard's still form, for a second before he backs up a step, reaching for the door into the back lounge.

"I'll –"

"Don't." Ray's hair bobs queasily as he turns from Frank to Gerard and back again. "Seriously, Frankie, we get it, okay? We're not, like, pissed at you for being a vampire. Just, you could've trusted us, you know?"

Frank flinches again, he seriously can't help it, but he takes a careful step closer anyway, grabbing at the curtain of his bunk as the bus sways into a turn. "I fucking hate that word," he mutters, low. Mikey kind of snorts like he has something to stay, but stays silent, brows beetled as he stares at his brother.

"Huh." Ray shuffles past, kneeling in the aisle to sort through the piles of magazines and papers at the foot of his bunk. Frank recoils back out of his way, and Ray blinks up at him for a moment like he's confused. "Jamia said you guys don't, you know, have a name for it or anything. I guess it just seems like the same kinda thing, you know?"

"It's not." The words come out sharp-edged, and Frank flinches back from the sound of his own voice. He can't seem to find his balance with this; he's never tried to talk to anyone about it. He's never had to. "Fuck. We – _I_ – don't kill people." Despite how close he's now come. "I'm a fucking vegetarian, okay, I don't go around drinking fucking blood." Just the idea makes him shudder.

"I thought that was because they were dead," Ray says, at the same time Mikey snorts again, shifting forward to tug the pile of blankets and comforters down and away from Gerard's neck.

"Really? 'cause it looks like you fuckin' tried, dude," he points out in deadpan tones that Frank barely hears, because he's too busy staring at the massive, dark-purple bruise curving around the whole lower right of Gerard's throat like the world's worst hickey. There are actual fucking teethmarks in the middle of it, dark red and swollen, and Frank thinks, dazedly, _holy shit_. That's going to fucking _hurt_ , when Gerard finally wakes up.

"What the fuck," he mumbles, not even really out loud, but it makes Mikey snort again as he flips the covers back up, hiding the mess Frank's made.

"Yeah, pretty much."

 

* * *

 

 

Gerard remains unconscious for another seven hours, during which time Frank takes over feeding duties from Bob, fidgets and twitches his way through three back-to-back interviews where everyone just wants to ask what's up with Gerard (food poisoning, per Brian), and haunts the bunks for so long that Ray has to physically drag him into the back studio when Mikey starts to get pissy. They end up working on some of the tracks they've been tossing around for a while, and even though they don't really get anything new down, it's a relief to be able to take it out on the strings, shredding out everything that's twisting inside him.

Around midnight, something shifts; Frank jerks upright so hard he almost clocks himself one with Pansy's headstock, staring at nothing. Sated and dull as his senses are, he can feel the change in the energies around him like a murmur against his skin; he lets his eyelids fall half closed, consciously sorting through the auras that are close enough to distinguish.

"Frankie?" Ray's fingers falter for a second, his last chord hanging in the air before he touches the strings to still them. "What is it?" His voice is squeaky with concern and he half-rises before Frank can pull himself back together enough to shake his head, unplugging and de-guitaring with hands that want to shake.

"I think he's awake," he manages, curling his hands into fists once he's set Pansy into the stand. Ray sits bolt upright, turning to face the door like he thinks Gerard's going to appear.

"Gee? You can tell?"

"I think so." Fuck. Frank takes a deep breath, telling himself he's not going to be a fucking coward about this. Time to face the fucking music. It still takes everything he's got to force himself to his feet; his hand shakes on the handle of the door.

The bunk area is empty, Gerard's stack of comforters pushed haphazardly aside. Frank hauls up short, one hand shooting out automatically to brace himself on the edge of a bunk even though they've been parked for hours, and Ray almost runs into his back, jostling him aside as he peers over Frank's shoulder. "Huh. Gee? Mikey?"

"Bathroom," Mikey's voice floats in from the front, and Frank takes so long to make his feet move that Ray pushes past, bustling to open the door. Frank trails in his wake, clenching his fists at his sides to try and keep his fingers from shaking.

The flimsy bathroom door shudders open just as Frank's poking his head around the door from the bunks, and he flinches at the sight of Gerard leaning up against the doorframe, sallow-skinned and drooping like a three-day tequila hangover, his eyes as bruised and bloodshot as the ugly mark on his neck. _Fuck_. Frank digs his fingernails furiously into his palms as Ray and Mikey exchange a totally obvious worried look.

"Fuck," Gerard mumbles, slurred like he really had been on a bender. Frank sees Mikey's eyes get a little tighter behind his glasses, but he just pats at Gerard's elbow, catching the edge of his sleeve. "Mikes?" Gee manages, rolling his head vaguely in his brother's direction. "Why do I – I feel..."

"You didn't," Mikey says quickly, and Frank flinches again as he understands what Gerard's asking. Gerard sags a little further in what might be relief, and Mikey pats at his arm again. "You're sick, Gee, you need to rest some more, yeah?"

"Food would be better," Frank blurts, just as Gerard mutters,

"'m hungry." He kind of looks up, blinking at Frank and Ray like he hadn't even realized they were there. "Uh..."

"I'll get food." Ray pats Gerard's shoulder, squeezing past Mikey to head toward the front. "Frankie, what...?"

"Uh." Frank has to force his brain to work; his eyes keep drifting back to the livid bruise marring Gerard's throat. He's going to have a hell of a time covering that up, fuck. "Um, carbs, I guess. And, like, sugar?" He tries to wrack his brains for actual potentially nutritious food that might be remotely available. "Fucking, pizza? Or, like, donuts or cake or something?"

"Cheeseburger," Gerard mumbles into the doorframe; he's sagging like he's about ready to pass out again. "And coffee. 'll be fine."

"Jamia said no caffeine until you can talk in full sentences," Mikey says laconically as Ray disappears into the front of the bus. He shrugs one-shouldered as Gerard makes a half-outraged, half-interrogative sound of protest. "Don't ask me, dude. Frank'll explain," he adds flatly, already digging his phone out of his pocket and turning away, like he's exhausted his stores of caring now that Gerard's woken up. Frank knows better, of course; the slump of Mikey's shoulders telegraphs relief as he wanders toward the front lounge. Fuck, Frank thinks as Gerard braces himself on the doorframe, pushing himself a little more upright.

"Frankie?" He sounds so fucking confused. Frank squeezes his eyes shut, digs his fingernails furiously into his palms, swallows the sharp-edged lump in his throat. When he forces his eyes open, Gerard is blinking worriedly at him, the hand that's not clutching white-knuckled at the doorframe shaking uncertainly in mid-air like he can't quite decide whether he wants to reach out.

"Yeah." Frank has to clear his throat, but fuck, he owes Gerard this much. "Yeah." He catches Gerard's elbow, shifting to let Gee lean on him, and Gerard's hand settles against his shoulderblade, fingers knotting in the ratty hoodie Frank's wearing. "Come on, Gee, let's..." Frank tugs in the direction of the bunks, his arm sliding around Gerard's shoulders despite himself, though he shies away from skin. He can still feel the low thrum of Gee's energy, weak and drained but familiar now, in a way that makes Frank want to pull away even as his body craves _more more more_. A swirl of something like nausea twists in his gut, and he grits his teeth.

"No," Gerard insists when Frank tries to ease him down onto his bunk. He braces himself on the edge of the top bunks, tugging away and stumbling toward the back lounge. Frank bites off a protest and hauls one of the tangled comforters over his shoulder, following. Gerard's fucking patting at his pockets like he's looking for his smokes, which probably isn't that great an idea, but hell if Frank's going to tell him he can't. He's pretty sure he's gonna be chain-smoking his way through this conversation himself.

Gerard curls up in the corner of the banquette couch in the back, tucking his arms around himself like he's cold and spluttering in surprise when Frank tosses the balled-up comforter at him. "Wha – hey," he protests, fighting the edge down and blowing fruitlessly at the hair that's fallen into his face. Frank kicks at the bottom of the couch a couple of times while Gerard fusses with the thing, trying to ignore the tremor in his hands that's too reminiscent of other times, worse things. He pokes at Ray's laptop, cracks open a window, takes his time strapping Pansy and Ray's guitar into their cases until Gerard's settled enough to lose patience and grumble, "Sit the hell down, motherfucker, Christ."

"Fuck." Frank folds himself down into the opposite corner of the couch, lurches back up to grab an ashtray. His skin feels too fucking tight. "Fuck, Gee, I – okay." His fingers twitch through the motions of lighting a cigarette, and he doesn't protest when Gerard makes gimme-gimme motions, manages to only flinch a little when their fingers brush as he passes it over. Gerard notices, of course, but Frank shakes his head spasmodically, lighting another. "Fuck," he says again, and, "I'm so fucking sorry, Gee, I never meant to – I'm such a fucking asshole."

"Um." Gerard peers at him over the top of his blanket, and Frank takes a drag, shoves his hand through his hair (probably almost setting it on fire, it occurs to him belatedly), takes another. He can tell he's kind of freaking Gerard out, but Frank's never _done_ this, never needed to open up, confess, put this shit into words at all. He thinks of Jamia, closes his eyes, tries to breathe. "Frankie?" Gerard ventures, and Frank snaps his eyes open, tries for a reassuring smile that clearly falls flat.

"I guess you feel kind of shitty, huh?" He waves his cigarette in a way that he hopes indicates Gerard's whole... Gerardness.

"I – yeah." Gerard frowns, ducking down into his pile of comforter so that only his head and smoking hand protrude. "I – Frankie, are you saying...?"

Frank twists his mouth up, ignoring this for the moment. "What – what do you remember?" he asks instead, trying to come around to it obliquely. "From before you – I – from last night," he settles on eventually, eyes on the glowing end of his cigarette.

"Uh." Gerard exhales smoke, coughs a little; Frank flinches despite himself. "I remember I was gonna check on you – you took off so quick, Frankie, and you've been looking so shitty lately, you know? And – I think I remember getting back on the bus, but – it's kind of, fucked up I guess? Like remembering a dream, or a hallucination or shit." His voice is so quiet, but it every little hitch in his breath feels like it's twanging against Frank's skin, far more real than the distant music and laughter and shouting that floats through the window above. "And – now I'm the one who feels like shit, and you're fine," Gerard finishes, slow like he's still working his way through it. Frank drops his head further, staring down at his fingers where they're mindlessly picking at the edge of a hole in his jeans.

"Yeah. It – this is totally my fault, okay, I'm so fucking sorry." He doesn't dare watch Gerard's face. "I – should have just, fucking, I don't know, done something about it," he knows he's talking around the edge of it but he can't help it, it's like the words slide away from his grasp. "Instead of, like, letting it get so bad that I... I was being a fucking stubborn asshole," Frank mutters to his knees. Gerard stirs like he's about to say something, but Frank shakes his head sharply, taking a sharp drag at his cigarette that leaves his throat raw and stinging. "Fuck," he exhales in a cloud. "I think I just felt like I ought to be able to manage it or something, you know?" He does look up then, searching for understanding and finding mostly confusion in Gerard's screwed-up face. There's something in his eyes, though, calculation.

"Manage what, Frankie?" Gerard asks, soft.

Frank screws up his eyes. "I – fuck, Gee, I almost killed you, okay? I was so fucking hungry," the words are starting to spill out of him now, faster and faster. "I thought I could control it, but it was too much, and I hadn't fed in so fucking long – I'm so fucking sorry," he cuts himself off, throat raw. "I'm so fucking sorry, Gee. I – if you want me to leave, I'll understand."

"Fed?" Gerard sounds like he's putting things together, now. Frank squeezes his eyes shut, gestures weakly with his cigarette and feels hot ash sift down against his jeans, stinging through the rips.

"Energy. Life force. I – it's got to be human." He has to stop and clear his throat before he can continue. "I'm... not." It hangs there between them like a living thing, twisting the air. Frank's so on edge that he almost jumps off the couch when Gerard kicks weakly at his knee, muffled through the thick comforter.

"The fuck, Frankie." When Frank looks up, off balance and freaked out, he's chewing on his lip and staring wide-eyed, cigarette a forgotten, drooping column of ash in his fingers.

"It's – fuck." Frank stubs his cigarette out in the ashtray with shaking fingers, scrubs a hand through his hair. "I fucking hate the whole vampires thing, okay, but it's kind of the best analogy – Jamia has this, fucking, theory or something that all that mythology came from real shit that got twisted around fucking centuries ago, you know? I just – ugh, the blood thing is like the grossest shit ever." Despite himself, his eyes are drawn again to Gerard's neck, where the barest shadow of bruising peeks up above the edge of the comforter. As though following his gaze, Gerard shifts, lifting a hand to his neck and wincing really obviously. His fingers linger over the mark as he stares at Frank, and Frank can't read him at all.

"...You're a vampire?" Gerard says eventually, in this weird strangled voice.

"No!" Frank snaps automatically, but he deflates as Gerard continues to eye him. "No," he says again, but Gee's still feeling at his neck, at the fucking swollen teethmarks in his neck, backed by a constellation of burst blood vessels.

"But you feed on human life force," Gerard says, and – fuck, he actually sounds...

"But not _blood_ ," Frank insists stubbornly, and Gerard rolls his eyes at him. Frank blinks, off balance.

"Fuck, whatever." He actually sounds sulky, what the fuck. This is getting fucking surreal. "How the hell are _you_ a vampire? You're like –" he waves a hand at Frank, illustrating precisely nothing, and Frank stares at him.

"You – are you fucking _jealous_?" he demands, disbelieving, but Gerard's looking shiftily away from him, poking totally obviously at the dead butt of his cigarette. Frank can't fucking believe this shit. "You – mother of fuck, Gee, you can't be fucking serious," is what comes out of his mouth in a rush. "I spend fucking months never getting enough, fighting my own fucking body that wants to drain all of you fucking dry, motherfucking starving myself so no one gets suspicious, and when I finally snap and almost fucking _kill_ you, you pull this shit? Fuck," he runs out of steam, panting harshly, and only realizes he's on his feet, vibrating, when Gerard pushes up from the couch to grab his arm, the trembling warmth of his palm on Frank's skin like an electric shock. Frank yanks violently away, slamming himself against the wall and almost toppling Gerard over the table; he's slower than he ought to be, the depletion clear in every line of him as he laboriously steadies himself, knuckles white on the edge of the table.

"Fuck," Frank hisses, furious with himself, and catches Gerard's sleeve, helping him ease back down onto the couch.

"Frank." Gerard clutches at the edge of the comforter, tucking it back around himself. His hands are totally fucking shaking; Frank feels like the worst asshole in the world. "Frankie, I didn't mean it like –"

"It's okay." Frank backs away, shoves his hand through his hair, lights another smoke. He can't think what else to say, opens his mouth anyway, but right then there's noise from the other side of the door and it flies open to reveal Ray, or what Frank assumes to be Ray since all that's visible is a cloud of hair behind a stack of pizza boxes and takeout cartons and paper bags. "Uh," Frank says.

"Frankie?" Ray shifts to peer around his burdens, and Frank makes a hasty grab for a bag of chips before it can make a break for it.

"Whoa." Gerard sits a little straighter. "Ray, man, I don't think I can eat all that." He sounds worried, like he's afraid he's going to be force-fed or something. Frank squints at him, then rolls his eyes, pushing their tangle of laptop and mics and cables aside to make room on the table so Ray can set the stack of food down.

"We brought enough for everyone," Ray says, wiping his hands on the ass of his jeans. "Bob's getting the juice, we figured you'd need vitamins, you know? How's it, um," he pauses kind of awkwardly, eyes flicking between Frank propped against the wall with his bag of Doritos and Gerard who's emerged from his blanket bundle enough to prize up the lid of one of the pizzas. "How's it going in here?"

"Fuckin' peachy," Frank mutters. Gerard makes a weird sort of half-noise that's muffled through a mouthful of pizza, waving the slice at Frank in a clear message to sit back down. Frank eyes Ray – with all the studio shit they've got back here, there's not all that much room for people any more. He sits, though, twisting the crinkly edge of the bag between his fingers as he watches Gerard make short work of half the pizza. The smell of pepperoni is making him more nauseous than he'd been to start with.

"Uh." Ray hovers uncertainly in the doorway, like he wants to ask but he really doesn't want to ask at the same time. "So did you, like..."

"We're past the whole 'hi, I feed on human life force' thing," Frank interrupts before this can get any worse. He's got his eyes focused firmly on the little slivers of light reflected by the crumples in the plastic, the rustle of the chips crunching over themselves very loud in his ears. "Right now we're kind of having a disagreement over whether it's _fair_ ," and fuck, his voice is shaking, _"_ that it's me and not Gerard who's the fucking quote-unquote _vampire._ "

"Frank," Ray starts, pushing off the wall, but for all his obvious exhaustion Gerard's quicker, dropping the takeout carton into his blanket-covered lap and wrapping greasy fingers around Frank's wrist.

"Frankie, no." Frank tries to flinch away from the contact, from the fading tremor of Gerard's hand and the inviting course of energy under his skin, but his grip is surprisingly strong. Frank remembers, absurdly, that no matter how wasted he'd been, Gerard had never once dropped a mic. Gerard's leaning toward him, giving him the same wide and earnest eyes he does when he talks about saving lives. "I didn't mean it like that, I was just surprised, okay?" His fingers squeeze once, tight, around the bones of Frank's wrist, then retreat to play with the edges of the takeout box. "If you don't like vampires, what do you wanna call it?"

"...Uh." Wrong-footed, Frank blinks at him. Fuck. "Fuck. We don't have a fucking word for it, okay, it's just..." He scrubs a hand through his hair, wincing at the oily feel of it. When did he last shower? He has no fucking clue. "We're not some secret fucking ancient society or anything, we're just – us. I don't know, okay, I've never talked about it, it's weird."

"Got that right," Bob says out of nowhere, shouldering Ray aside. Frank flinches; he's still sated enough that sensing what's around him isn't automatic but something he has to concentrate on, and every time he thinks about why he gets another flood of guilt so jagged and hot that all he wants to do is curl up around it and try to breathe.

"I'm sorry," he says directly to Gerard, meeting his eyes and ignoring the shuffle of Bob and Ray moving around each other in the little studio space. "If you want me to fuck off and never speak to you again, I – that's fair, okay, I'd get it." Gerard's eyes go wide and stunned, and Bob mutters something that sounds like "Fucksake," in the background. Frank can't think about him right now, though.

"You want to leave?" Gerard says in a tiny voice, fingers creeping back up to press against the mark on his neck like he doesn't even know he's doing it.

"No!" Frank jerks upright. "No, Gee, I – fuck, I just thought if you – you _guys_ – didn't want me around since I fucking tried to eat you! And, shit, I might again if stuff gets bad, you know? This," he waves a hand vaguely at himself, not even sure what he's trying to indicate, "isn't going to stop, yeah? This is who I am, guys. Welcome to my fucking life, I guess," he adds, unable to keep the bitterness out of his tone.

"You didn't eat me, though," Gerard says quietly into the uncomfortable silence that falls after that. "I mean, I guess I feel like shit, okay, but you said you were starving yourself, Frankie, right? So if we just fucking, make sure you feed regularly or whatever, then it'll be fine, right?"

"You fucking stupid motherfucker." Frank braces his elbows on his knees, drops his head into his palms so he doesn't have to look at any of them. His eyes are fucking stinging, jeez. "Do you have any fucking idea what you're even talking about? You wanna volunteer to help me prey on the fucking living, on our fucking _fans_ or some poor dumb fuck I have to see every day for the rest of the tour? Or are you volunteering to be fucking snack food again? Have you even fucking seen yourself, asshole?"

"I'm trying to help, motherfucker," Gerard grumbles as Ray breaks in, high and worried,

"I don't think, um, I mean Jamia said you weren't in control of yourself, Frankie, but I still don't think Gerard's in any state..."

"I fucking know," Frank interrupts, shoving himself upright to stare at the guys. "No offense, man, but I don't exactly wanna go around snacking on my fucking friends, okay?" That's definitely a couple of layers too weird for him. "I have, like, ethics. Or I did, fuck." He tips his head back against the banquette back, staring up at the blotchy ceiling.

"So..." Gerard flips open the lid of the takeout carton, making a pleased noise as the lounge fills with the smell of mystery-meat juices and onions. Frank makes a face, because it's pretty fucking disgusting, but he can tell from here how eating is improving Gerard's energy reserves. "Like, how does this work anyway?" Gerard says thickly, once he's swallowed. Frank shrugs, picking at the loose threads at the knee of his jeans. "You said you don't drink blood, but, like," Gerard cocks his head. "It feels like you tried to rip my fucking throat out or something, man, you know?"

"Ugh." Frank tugs at a particularly stubborn thread, feeling it start to unravel through the whole width of the fabric. "I _don't_ drink blood, but I _could_ , I guess. It's a fucking vital fluid, it carries energy and shit, but it's gross and messy and fucking dangerous, okay? I'm not some motherfucking gore fetishist here."

"Wait, really?" Gerard leans forward, eyes shining, gesturing with his cheeseburger like he's forgotten he's supposed to be eating it. Frank eyes the crumbs of bun and hamburger he's scattering across his blanket, shying away in disgust.

"Jamia said it has to be alive," Ray volunteers from the doorway, almost like he's relieved to be able to contribute, and Frank nods, looking away as Gerard polishes off the rest of his burger.

"Right, it's why we're vegetarian. It's – fuck, I really can't explain it, it's like we're fucking, I don't know, anemic or something? We don't make enough of this shit ourselves, fucking life force or energy or whatever, not like you guys. You're so fucking full of it, it's fucking spilling off you." And fuck, now that he's thinking about it, he can feel all three of them there when he shuts his eyes, Bob's solid, contained blue self-assurance and Ray's green-brown hope and nerves. Gerard is a tangle of slowly-strengthening red and black, bright with creativity and a thousand warring thoughts and desires, and it's like his aura flares the moment Frank actually looks at him, a spike of need and hunger driving into his gut and stealing his breath. He squeezes his eyes shut, clenches his fists tight and jerks in surprise when the bag of chips crumples and crackles in his hands.

"Fuck, Frankie, you're squashing them," Gerard complains, heaving himself forward to tug the Doritos away for himself. The brush of his hand, still too-cool, makes Frank flinch away as Gerard's energy whispers along his nerves. He doesn't want more, he _can't_ , not this soon.

"Where'd Mikey go, anyway?" Gerard is asking Ray, apparently oblivious to Frank's mini freakout. He barely listens to Ray answering, or the argument Gerard and Bob have over whether Gerard is going to eat the rest of the goddamn pizza (he keeps hold of the chips, though, when Bob gives in and hauls the rest of the food out to the front lounge for the techs to pillage); he's only pulled out of stewing in his own shit when Gerard's toes poke him insistently in the thigh.

"Frankie?" He has the air of a dude who's been waiting for attention for long enough that he's about to get pissy. Frank blinks at him, wondering when he'd drifted off and, for that matter, where Ray and Bob have gone.

"Sorry." Frank shakes his head, trying to clear it. "I – what's up, man?"

"I said," and fuck, yeah, there's the pissiness, a hint of an edge under the words. "How does this, like, work?" Gerard makes an eloquent gesture at Frank, like it's supposed to mean something to him. He's got a half-eaten jelly donut in his hand; Frank blinks at it. "I mean, you were talking about ethics, right, and not feeding on the fans, which is awesome, really, but like..." He stuffs the rest of the donut into his mouth, chewing loudly, and shoves his hand through his hair, leaving streaks of powdered sugar among the grease. "I guess I just – I mean, I wish you'd've fucking trusted me with this, Frankie. Trusted _us_ , you know?"

"Motherfuck." Frank tips his head back against the cushion again, suddenly feeling overwhelmingly tired. "I've already had this fucking talk from all the rest of the guys _and_ J, Gee. I get it, I'm an asshole."

"Jamia?" Gerard plays with the edge of the comforter, fussing until he's got it settled fractionally differently. "She – no, she's like you, right? Fuck, of course she is," he says to his lap, and there's a weird, dry, resigned note in his voice that Frank just can't bring himself to try and process right now. "So, what, you guys feed together, when you're back home?"

"It's not..." Fuck. Frank sighs, dropping his head. The back of his neck is so fucking knotted up, he's sure he's going to tear something when he hits the stage however much later it's going to be. "Okay, it's kind of like that." He stares down at his lap. "If it's just me, once a week or so is enough, you know? I don't, like... whoever it is, they might feel a little more tired than usual for a few days, but for a healthy person it's nothing they can't spare. It's just like – like feeling really well fucked, I guess. They mostly don't even notice it."

"...Wait." Gerard stirs, slow and thoughtful like he's putting the pieces together, and Frank doesn't dare look up at him. "You don't mean... Frankie?"

"Vital fluids, right? Not just blood," Frank chokes out. For all he'd thought he was totally unashamed of the whole thing, his face feels hot as hell. "You human guys fucking shoot that shit out every time. Who's gonna notice a little extra energy drain when they're coming their brains out?" A stupid giggle wells up in his throat before he can swallow it down. "And, you know, I fucking love sucking dick, so."

"Um," Gerard almost squeaks, like they haven't had way freakier conversations than this both wasted and sober, like he hasn't pranced across the fucking stage announcing his love of cocksucking to the whole fucking crowd. He jerks upright as something seems to occur to him, and Frank finally looks up to see his eyes wide over pink cheeks, his lip caught between his teeth. Frank's stomach bottoms out for no fucking reason, air catching in his chest. "Wait, is that – that time in the alleyway, was that...?"

"Uh. Yeah," Frank admits, shrugging one shoulder. "It – don't take this the wrong way, okay, I wouldn't trade this for the fucking world, but being here on the tour, it's harder to find... I guess, opportunities."

"Victims," Gerard supplies, but when Frank opens his mouth to snap out that he doesn't fucking hurt anybody (except, something whispers at the back of his mind, he has now, hasn't he?) he just flaps his hand, eyes distant and thoughtful. "Not like that. But – fuck, Frankie, this is fucking weird to think about, you know? You being, like, a sex energy vampire." He manages to hold a straight face for all of about half a second, long enough for Frank to bolt indignantly upright, before collapsing into giggles.

"Fucker." Frank steals a donut from the box in revenge, chomping grumpily down on it. He's pretty sure he's going to have to put up with whatever shit his band want to give him over this; doesn't mean he has to like it. "It's not a fucking sex thing, okay, that's just like a side benefit. I don't, like, _need_ to feed that way." Before he can think about it, he reaches out, pressing his fingers into the side of Gerard's neck, the still-swollen marks of his teeth hot and angry under his fingers.

The hiss of Gerard's indrawn breath startles him, and Frank stills, staring into Gerard's wide, shocked eyes. He can feel the fluttering beat of Gerard's pulse against his fingertips, echoed by the sudden frantic thumping of his own heart in his throat. "Uh," Gerard croaks, eventually, and Frank pulls away hastily, dropping hands and gaze to his lap, his face burning.

"Fuck. Sorry," he mutters, clenching his fists. He wants so many things – to run the fuck away, to start a fistfight just for the hell of it, to grab hold of Gerard and... he doesn't even fucking know. He starts rambling instead, spilling out a bunch of words about what happens to him on stage, how all the anchorless energy from the crowd just spills through him and drives his craziness, until Gerard starts yawning again and Mikey shows up to give Frank the side-eye and drag his protesting brother back to his bunk. Then, and only then, when everyone else on the bus is turned in and sleeping, does he creep into the bathroom and jerk off as quickly and quietly as he can, trying not to think about anything at all.  


 

* * *

 

Gerard still looks kind of tired the next day, the bruises under his eyes deep and yellow like the worst of his detox, but the stage makeup covers most of it the same way it does the giant mutant hickey. Frank hangs back and keeps his head down during sound check, but he can't resist the urge to keep one eye on Gerard at all times. He might be leaning on his mic stand more than usual, or it could just be Frank's imagination, he's not sure. The show itself, when they finally get onstage at nine, is fine though. Better than fine; Gerard fucking struts around like he knows he owns everyone in sight, wiggling his ass and his fingers and flashing a slash of pale thigh at the audience when he drops to his knees for the final chorus of The Ghost of You, because another pair of jeans has given up at the inseam.

Frank – Frank goes kind of insane for fifty minutes, maybe, the sheer relief of not being hungry, and that Gerard's okay, lifting him higher than even the energy of the crowd. He scales the drum riser and kicks a cymbal aside so he can jump off onto Mikey's back, causing Bob to glare death at him and the stage techs to rush out in a panic to restore order. He spins in circles until he topples over, bracing his weight on his shoulders and arching his hips into the beat. He breaks two strings on Not OK and flings himself into the end of the song anyway, coming up panting and drenched in sweat, grinning like a fucking lunatic as Gerard ad-libs for the crowd about being who you've gotta be and not letting anyone tell you otherwise. A glance to check that Frank's re-guitared, and they're off again, Bob counting them into Headfirst For Halos and Ray going fucking crazy with the solo like he feels the weight of _thank fucking god_ too.

The crowd go insane when they start in on Prison, and Frank feels the swell lift him, dizzy and breathless, lets himself go. Gerard is swinging his hips loosely, one hand pressed ostentatiously over his crotch for a handful of bars before he digs it into his hair, leaning forward on the mic stand to belt out the chorus. Frank whips around long enough to scream his first set of backup vocals, then kicks his mic stand over, storming over to share Gerard's. If he maybe ends up straddling the dude's leg, rocking his hips kind of exaggeratedly and leaning back as Gee's hand fists tight in his shirt, what the fuck ever. The kids eat that shit up, and he's having too awesome a time to give a fuck.

They finish with Helena, like they've been doing most nights this tour, and Frank leans up against Gerard's side for most of it, pressing his sweaty forehead against the stupid flak vest thing Gee's so attached to. He still feels like he's flying when they troop offstage, the screaming and cheering following them like a wave, and when Gerard turns after shouting something to Ray, beaming at him wide and flushed and delighted despite the exhaustion, Frank can't help but fling his arms around him, laughing like a maniac. He can feel Gerard's energy, still worn thin from exhaustion and depletion, but stretching to meet him anyway, and it's more of an effort to pull away than it should be, but Gerard doesn't even notice, already babbling about some of the signs the kids in the crowd had been waving.

Mikey vanishes somewhere, probably to find Wentz, but the rest of them straggle back to the bus, arguing over whether to get pizza or Chinese. Frank's starting to get twitchy as he comes down from the stage high, settling back under his own skin, but he's still riding the wave of relief that he hasn't hurt Gerard or fucked up the band; he feels conspicuous, too much the centre of attention, but so far the guys seem more curious than judgemental. He's preparing himself for another session of Q-and-A over lo mein (Bob vetoed pizza, claiming to still be grossed out by the four congealed slices Gerard had inhaled earlier), laughing at the way Ray squeaks when he's talking about yesterday's hot interviewer from the radio station, so he's not paying much attention as they jostle each other up the steps onto the bus.

The towel that smacks him in the chest takes him by surprise, and Frank stumbles to a stop in the lounge doorway as it falls to the floor, his eyes widening. Jamia folds her arms where she's leaning against the end of the couch, stone-faced and narrow-eyed.

"Hey, asshole," she says almost conversationally as someone rams into Frank's back and nearly sends him flying. Shit, he thinks dazedly as he catches at the counter, barely aware of Bob apologising behind him, he hasn't called her. He hasn't called her, because he hadn't know what the hell to say, and he'd felt so fucking guilty, hadn't wanted to admit how fucking close he'd almost come. Hadn't know what the hell to say or how to even begin apologising. Her eyes are telling him that had been one more mistake in the streak he's racked up. "Care to fucking explain yourself?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TBC at some point!
> 
> I feel the need to note that it is absolutely not my intent to make Jamia the bad guy nor to buy into the gross misogynist tropes of men being 'in trouble' with and henpecked by their female partners. Frank fucked up and was generally a stubborn asshole; of course she's pissed at him, and there will be a Conversation to be had about that, among other things, but this was a convenient place to stop.


	5. (partial)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Doing a WIP amnesty thing. This is a partial chapter that was never completed; this story is officially abandoned. If anyone wants to pick up the idea and do whatever they like with it, be my guest.

"You know, you're seriously lucky he's forgiven you." Jamia kicks her heel back against the post she's leaning on, watching him. Frank winces, twisting his foot so the scraggly parking-lot weeds rip and tear under the toe of his shoe. "Not that I'd have expected anything less, you guys," she makes a circular motion with her hand, and Frank knows she means the whole band, "are pretty tight, and he's had a thing for you for a while now."

"–He has?" Frank blinks at that, looking up at her. The lights from the showgrounds make a halo behind her, turning her into a shadow, but he feels her, angry and tense but aligned with him anyway, their auras meshed without thought. He doesn't need sight to tell she's rolling her eyes.

"Talk about fucking oblivious."

"What," Frank objects, "he's been clean a fucking year, okay, stuff's been... I don't even fucking know, weird. Changing."

"Oblivious," Jamia repeats, and Frank sighs.

"I get it now, okay, lay off." He still doesn't know how he feels about Gerard's thing, but it's not like he hasn't had other shit on his mind. Hell, he's given Gee enough reason to re-evaluate whatever he'd been feeling that for all Frank knows, stuff's changed anyway. "Can we just get back to how I'm an asshole?"

Her sigh is so loud that Frank looks around, despite the fact that the guys are still sitting on the bus a hundred feet away. "You're _such_ a fucking asshole, okay, but do you actually get why I'm pissed at you? Why the guys are pissed?"

"Uh, because I nearly fucking killed our lead fucking singer maybe?" Frank turns away, kicking at the bottom of the chain-link fence bordering the lot. "I fucking apologized for not calling you, J, I'm _sorry_ , okay? I was just – I don't know, all up in my fucking head. I should have called you, right away. I know that."

"No, you should have fucking told the guys about the whole thing a long fucking time ago, and you should have known better than to starve yourself at all, let alone to the point where you fucking snapped and attacked someone, Christ." Jamia folds her arms, leaning back against the fence and setting off a chain-reaction of metallic creaks. "I get that you have your fucking hang-ups, okay, and I love that your fans are off-limits, you know I do, but there's shit you work around and shit you get over, yeah?"

"I –" Frank starts, not even knowing where he's going, but she shakes her head.

"There's times you gotta look out for yourself, and times you fucking _ask for help_ , Frank. You've got a bunch of guys you can trust with your life, here, so start acting like it."

"I..." This time Jamia stays silent, but Frank still blanks. "Fuck. J."

"Yeah," she says, softer now, and holds out a hand. Frank grabs onto it, squeezing, and he's absurdly grateful when she squeezes back just as tight. They stand there for a while holding onto each other, until Frank sighs and slumps against the fence, pulling her closer. Jamia settles against his side, warm and familiar and alive; he can feel that she's a little hungry, nothing to write home about but it must have been a few days even before she'd dropped everything and hopped a plane out here.

"I'm sorry," he says again, resting his head against hers. She always smells so good. "You want...?" he rubs his thumb over the back of her palm, letting down enough of his shields that she shivers from the currents of energy that buzz against her skin. She shakes her head, though, after a moment, so Frank pulls back. "J...?"

"Not now." She turns her head, pressing a kiss against his cheekbone. "Maybe later, but I'm thinking we should probably go out together tomorrow. You know when you're playing yet?"

"Nuh-uh." Frank shrugs one shoulder. "Brian probably does?" His skin prickles with discomfort at the thought of going out into the chaos of the showground, trying to find the opportunity and privacy to feed, and she must sense it because she sighs a little.

"You make things harder for yourself sometimes, you know?"

"I know." He knows it pisses her off, too. "You put up with me anyway."

"And don't fucking forget it." Jamia sighs, turning her head a little so her breath ghosts over his throat, making him shiver. "Come on, it's gotta be bus call soon right?"

"About a half hour?" Frank says absently, but he lets her pull away and tug him with her.

The minute they step back into the lounge, four pairs of eyes swivel toward them. Frank kind of stops, but Jamia just snorts, her fingers tightening around his as she pulls him inside, and it's move or go face-first into her tits. Not that Frank would object to that _at all_ , but the guys probably don't need to see it. Absently, he tries to remember the schedule, where they even are and when the next hotel night's coming up. There's got to be one, right?

"Um, are you guys okay?" Ray is the one to ask, looking nervous. Frank sees Gerard kind of twitch, the way Mikey is sitting half on him like he has to hold him down; he's got one thumbnail wedged solidly between his teeth, gnawing.

"Fine." Jamia squeezes Frank's hand. "What are we watching?"

"Battlestar Galactica." Mikey gives Frank one last impenetrable look, then turns his face back to the TV, and it's like someone flipped a switch back to 'normal'; all the tension falls out of the air at once. Bob gets up to go and bug Brian about something, and Ray shifts up to make room, so Frank lets J push him down into the couch so she can sit on the arm with her legs across his lap. He relaxes by increments, half his attention on the screen and half on Jamia's warmth pressed against him, but there's always this weird awareness in the back of Frank's head, like Gerard's every twitch and fidget all the way at the other end of the couch is prickling against his nerves. He doesn't know what it means, other than that Gee's even fucking jumpier than usual tonight, but he grits his teeth and ignores it until the bus jerks and rumbles into motion and people start disappearing to their bunks for the night.

 

* * *

 

It's pretty near impossible to fit two people into a single bunk comfortably, but that never stops them trying. Frank actually does end up with Jamia's tits in his face while she's trying to wriggle out of her jeans, which makes her crack up at his enthusiastic noise, though he's slightly less happy about the accidental elbowing when she starts taking her bra off under her giant t-shirt nightdress thing. All around them is a quiet symphony of pointed ipod noises, thin tinny strains of music leaking out of headphones over the rustling of pages. Frank thinks if he really paid attention he could distinguish what each of his band is listening to – he's almost sure he caught a bit of one of their unfinished tracks, there – but mostly he just really loves his guys right now.

The other side of the bus rule, of course, is that they have to keep it quiet. "Missed you," Jamia's voice is barely a breath as she settles against his chest, and Frank wraps his arms around her, tugging her as close as he can.

"Me too," he mumbles against her jaw, and she turns her head enough to kiss him, mouths brushing together slow then more urgent. Three seconds, and Frank's having to work to hold his barriers up; it's always difficult, in the dark and heat, to keep from bleeding energy across the boundaries between her skin and his. He thinks maybe it's because he's so used to sex being part of harvesting energy – even though feeding sex is totally different from fucking J, they're still all tangled up in his head.

"Mm." Jamia bites down on his lip, hard, and fumbles for his hand, wriggling until she can drag it down between her legs. Frank inhales sharply at how wet she is, already – she must have been thinking about this all night, fuck – and his dick twitches, getting impossibly harder as she rubs her clit against his palm. The angle is awkward as hell, but he manages to get enough leverage to push his fingers inside her, stroking hard, and she bites her own lip now, grinding down against the heel of his palm and coming with a tiny, muffled sound, shaking all over. Frank almost swallows his tongue, sucks on hers when she thrusts it onto his mouth, and pulls at her hips with his slick fingers until she squirms her way on top of him and slides down onto his dick.

"Fuck," he breathes – her cunt is hot and slick and so fucking tight, and she breathes a nearly-silent laugh, squeezing around him until Frank thinks his eyes actually cross. Crammed into the bunk like this it's hard to get much leverage to thrust, never mind the noise they'd make, so he just rocks his hips up into her, letting Jamia grind down against him and fumbling her shirt up enough to get his hands on her tits. The second one always takes her longer, and by the time she stiffens and shudders, clenching down hard, Frank's gritting his teeth and breathing through his nose to keep from losing it entirely.

"Come on," Jamia murmurs into his neck, making him gasp as she shifts, but Frank shakes his head frantically, hanging desperately onto his barriers as he grabs her hips to still them.

"I don't think I can –" When it's been this long – when it's this fucking _hot_ – he always has trouble keeping his energy in check through an orgasm, and he can already feel his shields thinning. "J –" All he can think, absurdly, is that she'll fucking kill him if he gets her pregnant.

"Yeah?" She hums, thoughtful, and eases carefully up and off him. Frank bites back a frustrated noise and goes for his dick, so hard and hot he's gotta come in the next thirty seconds or he'll actually explode, but she smacks his hand away. "Uh-uh, mine." The blankets rustle as she wriggles her way down the mattress, folding herself up into the bottom half of the bunk, but Frank can't even care about the noise because she's wrapping a hand tight around his cock, licking over the head. He can't keep himself from bucking up, hard, and feels her breathe a laugh against him. "Go for it, okay?" Jamia whispers, and for a second Frank's confused because she's letting her shields down, what? – but then he can feel her hunger pulling at him and understands and he has to shove a hand over his mouth to muffle the sound he makes as she wraps her lips around him and goes down.

It never takes all that long, but with as close as he already is, Frank thinks he ought to be embarrassed at how quickly she pulls him to the edge, her tongue rubbing maddeningly at the ridge and curling around the head. He lets go of his barriers, finally, like unwrapping cramped fingers from the edge of a cliff, and the pleased humming noise Jamia makes is what tips him over. Frank bites down on the heel of his palm – it tastes of her, fuck, _fuck_ – and thrusts helplessly up into her mouth, spilling out pulse after pulse of orgasm that she sucks down hungrily.

When it's finally over, and his brain has shut down into a puddle of non-verbal warmth, Frank pants up at the dark ceiling of the bunk, listening to the violent beat of his heart in his ears. Jamia pats his hip and wriggles back up, yanking her shirt down past her ass, to settle against his chest, and when she kisses him, messy and satisfied, she tastes like come and himself. If she hadn't just siphoned off a portion of his energy reserves he could totally get hard again from that, Frank thinks.

No one seems to be making pissed off noises, though Frank's own breathing is too loud in his ears to hear much else. As he lies there letting his body come back online and his shields re-form themselves, though, he becomes aware of a steady, slow pulse of energy from outside the curtain walls of their bunk cocoon. Surprise makes him pull his own energy in tight, but he can still feel it against his barriers, the dim but clear burn of Gerard's presence across the aisle, easily distinguishable from the background hum of the others' lives. Frank breathes in slowly through his nose, reinforcing his shields, and turns his face into Jamia's hair, closing his eyes.

 

* * *

 

Waking up is slightly complicated by the fact that Jamia is still asleep on his shoulder, and his arm is dead. Like, completely numb; Frank blinks gummy eyes in the trickles of light that filter around the curtains, and tries to move his fingers, but he can't tell whether they even twitch. Ugh. He shifts gingerly, trying not to wake J – she always sleeps longer on the hungry side of her feeding cycle, and gets really fucking grumpy if you wake her up before she's ready – and manages to extract his arm by grabbing his wrist with his non-dead hand. Then he just has to lie there, gritting his teeth, while the blood flows back like a million tiny knives of ow.

By the time he can move his hand again without flopping it all over like a dead fish, Frank has to pee badly enough that he doesn't even care if the guys get an eyeful of the little bit of morning wood he has going. Careful not to wake Jamia, he lifts up the curtain just enough to roll out, landing in a crouch in the aisle. He can hear movement and TV noise from up front, but the bathroom is blessedly empty so Frank props himself against the wall with his still-tingly hand and pisses for what feels like at least twenty minutes, just letting his brain cycle around its stupid morning thoughts like what he could eat for breakfast and where the hell are they today, anyway?

When he comes out of the bathroom, toothpaste-fresh and washcloth-clean (well, everywhere he can get to in a fucking tiny bus bathroom, anyway), Gerard is propped up on his elbows in his bunk, blinking out past the drawn curtain like he's trying to decide whether he's actually awake. Or like he smelled coffee, Frank thinks, and he's got his mouth open to say hey when Gerard catches sight of him and yelps, going very wide-eyed for a second before he yanks his curtain closed.

"What?" Frank demands, before belatedly remembering that he's the bare-ass-naked one here and going for his bag to drag on the cleanest pair of underwear he can find.

"Do you always have to be fucking naked?" Gerard's voice is kind of muffled, and Frank can picture him talking into his pillow, wonders if he's blushing.

"I'm not always," he argues cheerfully, wobbling on one foot as he tries to shove the other through the leg of his jeans, which seem to have tied themselves in knots overnight. He kicks out wildly, almost overbalancing, and there's an ominous ripping sound. "Mother _fucker_."

"What?" Gerard pulls back his curtain like an inch, peeking warily out as though Frank's dick might assault his delicate eyes again. Frank manages to get the waistband up over his ass finally, sticking his leg out to survey the damage, which is impressive. Half of his right calf tattoo is visible where the hole at the knee has ripped out and down the seam, a triangular tongue of denim hanging down. "Oh." Gerard sits up, pushing his curtain back. "Wow, Frankie."

"Shut up," Frank complains, feeling decidedly pissy – first because there went his last pair of clean jeans, and then because he can't even blame anyone but himself. "Fucking damn it."

"I have duct tape?" Gerard offers, heaving himself up and flopping over like some kind of black-pajama-clad seal to start rummaging through the layer of dead coffee mugs and filthy shirts and pens and sketchpads and comic books lining the wall of his bunk. "Uh, somewhere. Bob definitely does, though."

"Ugh." Frank stares down at himself, trying to evaluate whether he should even bother. They're still a few days out from a laundry stop, he's pretty sure, and everything else in his duffel is too disgusting to contemplate, but no matter how careful you are with duct tape there always seems to be some little edge that wants to rip out all your leg hair. Maybe he can just bum around in sweats for a couple of days.

"Whazzup?" Jamia croaks, startling both of them as she pulls the curtain aside to squint out. She has a big pillow crease all down the side of her face, and a totally grumpy expression; it's kind of adorable. Frank can feel his face stretching into a totally dopey grin, which makes her glare even more, so he just waggles his knee in her direction, flapping the ripped-out chunk of denim back and forth.

"Hey. Time to retire these, you think?"

"Fuck," Jamia observes, rubbing a hand over her face that just makes her look even blearier. Frank bends down to kiss her, can't not, and when he straightens reluctantly, turning to find a shirt, Gerard's bunk is empty.

 

* * *

 

The sky is gray-white and low, threatening rain, but it's still hot as balls out here. Frank can feel his shirt sticking to him already, and he's hyper-aware of the press of over-excited kids around them, energy ramped up and spilling over as they mill around the merch booths and food carts, waiting for the main stage to open. My Chem are near the end of today's bill, so there's time, but Frank still feels antsy, just the same way he does when it's them up there, about to kick off the show.

"C'mon," Jamia says into his ear, squeezing his hand, and Frank meets her eyes, feels the way the press of energy around them has her hyper-sensitized, hunger clawing across the link between them. They're near the back of the crowd, where the kids are in motion rather than crammed together or pushing for the front, and as Jamia steers them toward a van with a blinking VEGAN sign Frank wonders for a second if he's entirely misreading her signals. He can see her attention zeroing in, though, and it's not on the falafel cart, because she does this totally-fake stumble, grabbing at the leather sleeve of some punk chick's jacket like she's trying to keep herself upright.

"Whoa –" Frank reaches to steady her automatically, eyes on her but most of his attention on the girl she's draped over. Spiky pink hair, ear gauges, older than most of the kids around – older than him and Jamia, maybe. Hot in that slightly-butch way J's always into; he hangs back as Jamia steers artfully through apologies and are-you-okays into semi-flirtatious small talk. In no time they're discussing the lineup, Punk Chick gesturing as she talks about her favorites; Frank sizes up the way their heads are tilted together and leans in to murmur into Jamia's ear that he's going to get food. He makes a drinking gesture in Punk Chick's direction, too, and a quizzical face, and she shrugs one shoulder, squinting at him like she knows she ought to recognize him until Jamia distracts her again.

Objectively, Frank thinks, glancing back over his shoulder as he joins the back of the line, he ought to be used to the way Jamia can go from her everyday gorgeous and charming to utterly compelling in the blink of an eye. It shouldn't have the same effect on him that it does on humans, he knows, but fuck if he can ever take his eyes off her when she's like this.

The line moves at a crawl, but eventually Frank can fork over way too many sweaty bills in return for a greasy carton of food and three shitty beers that he has to juggle when a pair of girls in Sunday hoodies shriek and mob him to sign shit. When he finally gets back to where they were, Jamia and Punk Chick have vanished entirely, so Frank has to squint his eyes shut and concentrate past the energy being flung every which way to catch her signature. The trail leads around back of the lineup of carts and stalls, and by the time Frank's worked his way through the crush and squeezed past the clutter of gas bottles and power hookups, he isn't at all surprised to find that Pink Hair has J pressed up against the wall at the edge of the showground. She always has liked to let them think they're calling the shots.

Abandoning the food box and all but one of the beers on a stack of crates, Frank lets himself drift slowly closer, watching. They're kissing hard, and Jamia has her hands under Pink Hair's jacket. The way their tits are pushed up together ought to be totally hot, and objectively it _is_ , but while Frank can feel the way Jamia's building up the girl's already-blazing energy, in place of the usual irresistible drag at his shields, there's just a sort of weird absence, like something's missing. Disquieted, Frank fumbles his beer up to his lips, taking a slow sip as his eyes follow Jamia's hands down Pink Hair's back under the jacket, the way her fingers slide around the curve of her ass, guiding her to press closer up against her thigh. Pink Hair breaks their kiss wetly, gasping, and Jamia's grin is lazy and predatory enough that Frank's dick twitches interestedly. The smirk she sends his way says she totally noticed the spike in his aura, and she nudges Pink Hair to look over at him, too, darting out her tongue to lick at her neck.

"Yeah?" Jamia's voice is muffled enough that it seems like she's only getting Pink Hair's okay, but Frank can hear the offer in it. Pink Hair's eyes widen a bit, and she very obviously looks him up and down, before her head tips back as Jamia does something or other with her tongue. Frank lets himself imagine it, pushing in close to take his turn, joining in with Jamia to bring the girl over and share the resultant rush of energy, but somehow it's just not... there's something not _right_ about that, about the taste of her that he can already feel in the air; it's not what he's craving. He doesn't understand why, but he just tilts his bottle in their direction before settling his shoulder against the wall, taking another sip.

Jamia gives him kind of a narrow look, but she's not stupid enough to actually _stop_ , going for the girl's belt buckle and zipper.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a bad stopping point on purpose, but that's literally all there is.


End file.
